


The Rapist

by LadyLuckDoubt



Category: Gyakuten Saiban | Ace Attorney
Genre: Dark, Epic, Gen, M/M, Mind Games, Mindfuck, Multi, Other, Phoenix Wright Kink Meme, Post-Canon, Prison, Psychologists & Psychiatrists, power, prison fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-10-24
Updated: 2015-04-15
Packaged: 2017-10-24 22:25:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 39
Words: 426,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/268550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyLuckDoubt/pseuds/LadyLuckDoubt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kristoph Gavin's prison psychiatrist has seen everything, spending years working with the toughest of the tough, the irredeemably unhelpable behind the bars of one of America's worst prisons. Hardened and on the verge of apathy, he appreciates the change of pace when he is assigned the intelligent, well-spoken and cooperative former lawyer. But then things start to shift and Kristoph starts working his subtle charisma, and the prison, its staff and inmates, and the narrating doctor's lives are all about to be thrown into some serious upheaval.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Before and After

**Author's Note:**

> There are spoilers for all the games in the series here. There is also violence, and there are triggering subjects ranging from childhood sexual abuse to suicide to self-injury as well as pretty much anything and everything one could feasibly imagine in an adult prison setting and often, a somewhat flippant attitude to these things from various characters.
> 
> If you've read that and you're still here, hi: this is probably the longest thing I've written EVER, and probably one of the longer-running pieces on the Phoenix Wright Kink Meme. Initially meant to be maybe ten parts showing Kristoph smirking his way through a few therapy sessions and disturbing the hell out of the therapist, this became something else entirely, and it's become huge.
> 
> The title credit goes to an anon who saw the request for _Kristoph Gavin post imprisonment.  
>  In therapy._
> 
>  _I want to see what happens in these sessions, what's being said._ and went "The _rapist_." Suddenly I had a vision of Kristoph Gavin being shockingly creepy towards a prison-issue shrink: dropping sexual innuendo, calmly talking about his fucked-up-ness, perhaps even implying some rather disturbing Freudian things about the poor therapist, and the shrink thinking "I've dealt with this before, he's not getting under my skin," and Kristoph being equally stubborn and wanting to crack the uncrackable.
> 
> I've forgotten when exactly it was that I realised that the rest of the prison-- and the staff there, as well as the other inmates-- started getting drawn in, but gradually they did, and suddenly Kristoph's plans grew bigger: in grandiose Kristoph style, he didn't just want to annoy a doctor, he wanted revenge, power, control-- and had hatched a diabolical plan to get it...
> 
>  
> 
> This fic has by far attracted more conversation and feedback than anything else I've written, and I have been constantly amazed that people were *still* reading it, offering theories and in general being completely amazing and supportive throughout the writing process. Major love to the Kink Meme anons and to everyone who's offered encouragement or theories or who's stopped by to let me know that they've been enjoying it-- this one's for you guys.

I've been warned about him. Repeatedly.

Prison staffroom gossip goes a long way, and for those of us who watched the news on the television installed for lunch hour breaks in the staffroom, we were aware of who he was, what he was capable of.

None of us were prepared for the reality. A day in, he's calm, he's dignified, he's quiet and rather charming. A few days later and some of the female staff; the eternally hardened, women who learned to become tougher than men in essentially a man's world-- they're admitting to  _rather liking him._

 

  
This was when I started to suggest moving his initial consultation up; he'd refused it upon admission, and since he seemed to have no overtly dangerous or self-harming tendencies, it was, at this stage, strictly optional. I was worried about him seducing staff, undermining them. They had a hard enough job, the last thing they needed was this master manipulator messing with their circuitry.

We made an appointment. He chuckled easily and I couldn't pinpoint why I was scared of him. I'd been in the job a decade. I'd dealt with criminals from all walks of life, men whose minds had become a cauldron of toxic slush thanks to repeated drug abuse, head trauma and their own demons. I'd seen serial killers, sexual sadists, mass murderers. I'd been propositioned and threatened and at times, nearly physically assaulted by all manner of monsters: they were the dregs of society, they were forced to see me, and they resented the hell out of me.

I couldn't hate them, not entirely. If I hated them, I wouldn't be working here, I'd have a private practice in a nice neighbourhood, I'd be charging two hundred an hour and dealing with neurotic, bored housewives and their cocaine-addict hotshot husbands. I'd be talking to spoiled Valley girls with eating disorders and angst about losing their virginity.

I wouldn't be here. It was a job that you loved, in a way, a job that grew around you and became part of you like ivy on a brick wall. Over the years it changed me, became part of my identity, unshakable, a parasite, until we were both locked into it and it couldn't survive without me and I couldn't exist without it. Sure, I had my fantasies about leaving every now and then, a bad day at the office could have me leaving at the end of the day desperate for a bottle of Scotch and an extended holiday. But that was everyone, a perfectly normal reaction to the pressures of fulltime employment in a difficult industry. On the whole, my job was  _me_. I was going to stay here, I was born into it, I'd retire from it. And my golden years would be spent reminiscing about various men I'd seen and dealt with and possibly helped on their way through the system or back into the community or down that long stretch with the white light at the end known as the green mile.

"At least it's interesting," I'd tell outsiders who'd only come as close to a prison as seeing one on a cheaply made sensationalistic documentary.

 

* * *

Gavin was unnerving. It was the stillness, the  _ease_  with which he seemed to glide around the place, like he'd always belonged here and it wasn't going to rattle him, couldn't get under his skin, and wouldn't at all change him. He was sharing a room with one of the old-timers, a elderly gentleman by the name of Ruce, who'd been here longer than I had. Ruce was no threat to anyone, he kept out of everyone's way, he had nothing of value to any of the rest of the prison population. Gavin was a decent choice of cellmate, I thought; and seeing him there, I agreed-- neither were at risk of harming the other, and since they both preferred to stay in their cell most of the time-- and neither was a big conversationalist-- it appeared to work better than most of the times complete strangers are forced to share a room and their lives for an extended period.

"So-- next Tuesday-- three o'clock-- you'll be brought down to my office, and we can talk." My false cheeriness was the way I disguised fear as I scheduled a follow-up session after some policy changes which had affected some of the inmates. Procedural, of course. He'd kept out of my way and I'd kept out of his for awhile, and I liked it like that and he seemed to as well. It would all be perfectly simple.

 

I didn't like the way he just stared at me. I'd seen sociopaths do that when regaling some story about some woman they raped or some animal they tortured. Ten years here, and I knew the look.

"Thankyou, doctor." He smiled then, sunshine and lightness, betraying the cold-blooded killer who'd thought nothing of double-murder and setting up his supposed friend to take the fall. 

 

I could see how someone could fall for that smile, though. It disturbed me how easily he smiled.

  
"Righty-oh then." Field and Hamm, the two workers who'd escorted me down into A-wing-- motioned for me to step out of the room. Gavin stepped away from his door, offering no resistence. Hamm was only five-four, in his fifties, and looked like he was made of putty. Had Gavin wanted to put up a fight, it would have been childs' play.

But he didn't. He clutched his book to his side-- I made a mental note to ask him bout his reading interests during the session-- and smiled again, watching me step out.

"I bid you farewell," he said. "Until next Tuesday unless we meet before."

"Yeah," I said. "See ya then."

* * *

It seemed cocky and arrogant of him to suggest that I'd see him before the assigned time, and I didn't like it when they did that. It was an attempt at them gaining control; passive-aggressively, but it was still there. Gavin, according to his files,  _liked_  control. The only thing I was looking forward to about seeing him was that he appeared pleasant enough, and intelligent. The fact that he wasn't psychotic or suffering the repercussions of ice or hooch were also positives.

 

  
He was right; I didn't have to wait until the following Tuesday.

Friday evening I was called back for an assessment; there'd been an incident in A-wing-- it had come as a surprise; the docile long-timers as well as a few of the less-violent resided there, usually, or the non-affiliated hotshots with too much media attention to walk freely in a crowd. I'd been expecting more DeMorales-Kitaki drama from E and D wings; not this.

I suspected senility had set in for poor old Ruce.

I didn't expect to be walked through a unit on lockdown, past walls smeared with blood, and down into solitary. The isolation room door hung open, no risk to anyone since the unit was locked down-- and I could see bloodied handprints, like childrens' fingerpainting, stamped around the lemon walls.

"We have a problem," Towne said in monotone. "A  _big_  fucken problem."

"Who is it this time?"

"The ladykiller."

 

  
I knew it was him. And I didn't want it to be, but there was a curling in my guts that made me know my suspicion was correct. 

"Daniels?" I asked. Sexual sadist and murderer of twelve women on a spree that spanned three years, eight years ago. Reasonably well-behaved since he'd started serving a life sentence.

Towne laughed grimly. "I'm talking about our friend Gavin. Wouldn't have picked him, actually."

I nodded sternly. "Looks like he came off second-best."

"No, that was Wellington, who'll be seeing you when he's stabilised and ready to talk," he said. "And Parke's said he's  _not_  having him back on the unit until he's in a reasonable condition. The bastard made a mess of him."

 _Where were the staff?_  I wanted to ask, but didn't. I nodded instead.

"Parke's down with Wellington in the hospital; they had to take him outside to emergency. I'm running the floor right now: the place is on lockdown and we want Gavin assessed and moved  _off_  the unit if at all possible,  _tonight_."

"That sounds hefty."

"We can't get any of the senior psychs in to approve meds for him, and we're worried he's going to escalate." He patted me on the shoulder as we reached the door. "You're the man, doc."

I watched him slide the window on the door open, and peeked in.

Gavin was sitting on the floor, legs crossed. He could have been doing yoga to an outsider.

I knocked on the door. "Mr. Gavin?" I asked.

He looked up, recognising my eyes and voice, and smiled again, a glimmer coming into his eyes. "I thought I'd be seeing you before Tuesday," he said warmly.

And that was when I started feeling _really_ ill around him. The calmness in the middle of such chaos? I hadn't really seen that before.

 

 

 

 

Of course, they don't like staff getting hurt here, and they don't like us taking stress leave or trying to get compensation for what this place does to you. 

It's not a natural working environment, you're not in normal settings. You either get in, and get out quickly, or the strangely seductive lull of prison life draws you in; you like the routine, you get used to the faces, the violence you hear about only starts to cut so deep. You rationalise and don't judge about things, and you make sure you get the hell out of that headspace when you leave the place at the end of the day. 

They like their specialists here, because they're hard to acquire. Harder to keep. 

So we're set up with the same sorts of tools as the regular staff here have at their disposal; the radios for staying in contact, the first aid kits in case someone requires first aid. The duress alarm, which sits on your hip and which you press when there's something you can't deal with. Everyone loves the duress alarm; it's comfort to the staff, and when one of those babies goes off, the whole prison gets to hear about it. You'll see them asking one another days later, "Who set the alarm off, man-- what happened?"-- and you hear stories embellished of what might have, men posturing to one another when the outsider goals and achievements have little value any more. Being able to strike momentary fear and panic into the hearts of others-- it's capital. 

 

I'm lead to Gavin's cell on the Friday morning. 

He's only been in there overnight, but I'm there to assess and meet with him, to see if he's at all moveable back to the general population. 

I shake my head when I hear such a ridiculous suggestion. He's a livewire. He's dangerous. He's a chess player-- once the story of his physical prowess gets out to the rest of the inmates, all he need do is start getting in people's ears and getting other hands to do his dirty work. The fact that he looks so harmless-- and acts like such an angel most of the time-- is what  _makes_  him dangerous. I've seen it before-- he gets removed from J-wing, he goes back to gen pop, everything's calm for awhile, he's behaving like a choir boy, maybe he's won a few hearts, things slacken-- and  _wham_ \-- someone isn't as lucky as Richard Wellington, who's going to be spending some time in the psych unit from what I was told this morning. 

Wellington. I'd suggested protective custody from the initial consultation-- a cop killer and a hustler and a con man who conned cons-- a lethal combination in a place like this. Add to the mix his propensity for sounding like an over-educated smart arse and his somewhat weak constitution, and why they didn't put him there is a mystery to me. 

Psych unit is in a different section; they have their own shrinks and their psychs work longer hours even though most of their clients are just drugged to the hilt anyway. Occasionally I get called there to evaluate when someone needs to come back to gen pop. A second opinion.

 

  
The solitary unit looks empty when I walk down the corridor. Privacy laws mean that the bastard's got to get just that; the workers can't accompany me within earshot since his visit with me is about confidential things. _They_ get to wait down the hall. They get to run to my aid if I hit the duress alarm. My fingers run over it and its hard, worn leather pouch on my belt as I get to the door. No need to knock; it's the old-fashioned bars in here. Whenever we get budget, there are more pressing things than fixing the cells up this end-- technically if there is more than one prisoner here, they can yell out to one another, so "isolation" becomes a token buzzword only brought about by positioning. Gavin wouldn't be able to hear someone up by the doors leading back unto the unit.

 

He's sitting in his chair, in the middle of the room, reading something. It's a thick, full-looking book-- many of them read the Bible in here-- the thought of this one reading it is almost obscene. 

He looks up when he hears the footsteps, sees who's coming, and then goes back to reading as though nothing out of the ordinary happened. They feed him, they bring him mail. Three times a day, nothing more. Maybe he's not used to the drudgery yet.

"Gavin," Towne say in a non-nonsense snap-- "Time for therapy." 

He looks up and smiles, placing the book down gently at his feet. "Ah," he purrs, acknowledging me, " _The rapist_." Says it like it's one word, like he hasn't worked out how to pronounce "therapist." Towne glares at him and clears his throat.

"Actually," I offer, "I'm a psychiatrist."

The keys slide into the lock, and there's the click and the door swings open. 

"No reason you can't be both," Gavin says evenly.

"No monkey business," Towne says defensively. "If I hear one word about you doing anything to doctor--"

"I harbour no resentment towards your esteemed colleague," Gavin says, standing up and waiting for the wand. I stand back as Towne sticks his arm in, waving a plastic object over the air around him, watching as he lifts his feet. He doesn't even have to request anything; Gavin's a fast learner. Usually it takes them awhile to pick up the microroutines of the place. They're checking him for abnormalities; contraband; weapons he might have fashioned from something-- and you see it all here. You can never be too careful. Look at an object, and get creative-- work out how the most benign of items could injure someone, and apply an understimulated imagination to the mix, and you're starting to see what I mean.

Gavin's clean. 

I watch him for movement, for any kind of gesture which might seem to indicate... something. But no; I turn to Towne and Field and give them a nod. "We'll be an hour," I say confidently as the door-- gate, really-- is shut behind me and the lock clicks ominously. I feel my hand reach down and my fingertips caressing the leather on the duress alarm all over again.

 

Therapy is now in session.

 

"I'd invite you to have a seat..." he says, letting his statement end there, looking apologetically at the lone plastic chair in the middle of the room, shaking his head, hand to his glasses-- the part that was unsaid obvious.

The lack of foresight on the staff's part is aggravating. What were they expecting me to do?  _Stand_? I'm certain they wouldn't have expected him to.

"Of course, I  _could_  use the bed for my own seating requirements." He looks in the direction of the miserable-looking cot-bed. "Would you prefer that I do that, doctor?"

He's stunningly, perfectly polite.

"If you wish to," I say evenly, hoping that he will.

"I'd prefer to," he says. "I'd like you to feel that we're on the same level, doctor."

I don't know if he wants to rise above his own, or drag me down to it. He gets up from the chair and walks across to the cot, and sits on the edge, smiling at me, his hands folded in his lap.

"So what do you wish to talk to me about?" he asks. I'm trying to make myself comfortable in the plastic one-piece chair. They're perfectly molded, like childrens' chairs, no sharp edges, nothing to break off and use as a shank. Sitting where I am, I wonder if the cell has been assessed for dangers. I can already see potentially hazardous problems with the room, and it bothers me to think that he's probably noticed them, too.

"Where would you like to start?" he asks me.

"This session is about  _you_ , Mr. Gavin."

"Maybe you need to inspire me into conversation."

"I'd like to know what you want to talk about."

He looks down at the book on the floor almost painfully, and so do I. It's not the Bible. It's Ayn Rand.  _The Fountainhead_. I remember it from high school. I'd written an essay about the damn thing to try and win a scholarship into one of the major universities back in the day.

I hadn't won. I guess I'm not much good at being an Objectivist.

"Maybe you could introduce me to yourself, then," I offer. I'm wanting to ask him about the book, but wanting to see how he describes himself first. The reports only go so far, and they leave out the little details. Beneath the casual sarcasm and the elegance and etiquette, there might just be a little boy lamenting that his mother never read to him at night.

"You already know me," he says.

"No I don't." It's my false cheeriness coming back, trying to smooth over sharp corners and make everything that much easier for everyone. 

"You've already seen the reports and formed an opinion of me," he says. "You already know what you think of me." He's looking at me intensely. "I'm just another specimen to you, another client, another mind to assess and put into paperwork." He shrugs. "Where are your gaps, doctor?" he asks. "What are you missing?"

"I'd like to see what you can offer me," I say to him. "Sometimes it's more telling in your words."

That seems to appeal to his arrogance or to interest him. He raises his eyebrows slightly, and then falls forward slightly, rocking back and smiling then.

"I could be here a long time," he says.

"We have just under an hour today, and I can come back for subsequent appointments if you'd like."

"Maybe I'd like that," he says.

"So you're undecided about therapy?" That was interesting; Gavin seemed to be a man of absolutes, and I always figured that with his need for control and his tightly-guarded reality behind the smiles and the perfectly groomed mane which he wore in a spike which rested over his shoulder-- he'd either have embraced-- or more likely, dismissed-- the idea of therapy.

"I'm undecided about a great number of things," he says, crossing one leg over the other and looking at me, his eyes still piercingly, intensely blue behind the glasses. "If I see any value in this, I shall continue. Otherwise, I shall not." He leans in, as though he's addressed the subject, and then looks at me. "So what would you like, doctor?"

"I'd like to get to know you." I don't like the way he's vying for control of the whole thing. I've heard of people who go into this industry  _to_  control others, men and women who've felt powerless in their own lives-- and I'm not one of them. But his desperate need is just  _there_ , staring at me, bothering me.

"Your words," I say. "Let me meet the real Kristoph Gavin."

 

He leans back then, and smirks at me. No shame whatsoever, like he's amused by everything. "I suppose a disclaimer is in order then," he says, and with a flourish of his hand-- did the guy do drama in college?-- "I, Kristoph Volker Gavin--"

"Volker," I repeat. "That's an interesting name."

"German," he says with a shrug. "After my great-grandfather. Being the oldest male child means there are some traditions one gets burdened with, I suppose."

"Do you resent any of them?" I've gone into psychiatrist mode before I've realised what I've done. Gavin raises an eyebrow at me.

"Do you realise--" he asks smoothly, "How  _condescending_  you sounded just then when you asked me that?" He smirks nastily, and I feel like I've caught a glimmer of teeth even though I'm sure his mouth has stayed shut. "I've tried to kill men for less, some would argue."

And that's when I open my big, stupid mouth. " _Tried to_? The report says you were successful, that the traveller Shadi Smith died after you hit him over the head. And the Mishams..."

"They're the ones everyone knows about." He raises an eyebrow. I've seen this before, the great wild goose chase. The bit of amusement I can potentially provide him. 

"May I remind you," I suggest tactfully, "I'm neither a priest nor a legal representative. Your secrets aren't necessarily safe with me."

"I'm fully aware of that, doctor." Still smiling. Maybe he was telling the truth. I assure myself that he wasn't before continuing.

"So..." I can feel my palms sweating, and that lump in the back of my neck which flares up with too much stress or Thai food flaring up. "Kristoph Gavin... you're in for  _life_ \-- no possibility of parole-- and you're... wanting to spend the rest of your days  _here_?"

"I suppose so," he says.

"Is that something else you haven't decided upon yet?"

"Partially. I'm just reeling from the spell of good fortune I had which has spared me the death penalty. I'd been thinking about it and then the capital punishment legislation was overturned in this jurisdiction, wasn't it?" His voice is smooth and satin. This was why I was meant to be seeing him on Tuesday: to talk to him about the change in legislation: _So You're not Going To Die._

"Yes," I say. "Were you contemplating your own death?"

"Of course," he says. "I was aware of the usual bleeding hearts and liberals pushing for the laws to change, but in the time I've spent here since that ruling, I've had to deal with a great number of things. Leaving my lovely solitary cell, being dragged out to court and having to face a number of people I wished not to-- and then being transported back here." He sighs dramatically. "I miss number thirteen. My unlucky number; had I been lucky, I wouldn't have returned to custodial services at all."

"You still would have served the remainder of your time for the murder of Shadi Smith," I point out. I'm speaking about murder so casually. This is what I'm paid to do.

"Would you like to talk about that?"

He shrugs. "What would you like to know, doctor? I'm an open book."

I hate the way he says that. Because seeing that smile and that light in his eyes, I know I've pried open a nasty little box, and I'm going to be hit at full force with whatever his id's wanting to bring forth.

"Let's talk about the murder, then," I offer weakly. I don't want to. I hear the note in my voice change, then; I've dropped my defenses for a second, the sadist in him is going to tell me about his glorious murderous rage; how his pulse raced and he felt the same kind of buzz as the first time he realised that you could  _hurt things_  and make them shriek in pain for as long as you could hold out; how he'd fled the scene and been scared of getting caught because after the efficiency that hit, he needed to jerk off so badly, that it was hard to stop  _smiling_ \-- 

"It sounds as though you'd rather not discuss that," he says politely. "A notion which is entirely understandable; after all, as you previously stated, you hardly know me." He chuckles to himself. "I shall discuss the murders with you at a later stage if you wish; for now, what do you require from me?"

"Let's discuss your narrow escape from death." I glance down at the Ayn Rand book on the floor. "Maybe you should be thankful for those bleeding heart hippies."

"I'm not convinced of their influence," he says, then pauses. "Though I am convinced of my brother's."

 

I fold my hands. "Your brother?"

The look on his face changes for a moment then.

"Would you like to talk about my brother?" he asks.

I've seen the casenotes. Brother is a top prosecutor, funnily enough. Brother was one of the people involved in his elaborate plans and deception. Brother still visited him on a regular basis.

"If you'd like to." At least that's an opening. I can see him relaxing a little, leaning forward, interested.

"Well... I suppose." He smiles. "Klavier Gavin." He relishes the name, sighing to himself. "My little brother." 

"He was involved in your incarceration, wasn't he?"

"Yes," he says. "He was somewhat pushed into it, however." There's a wave of one hand and he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. " _Phoenix Wright_  was behind that..."

All of a sudden, I don't like where this is going. It's teetering on the edge of him talking about the murders. Maybe I don't want to hear about them just now, not necessarily because I'm squeamish, but because I want to keep an open mind about him. I want him to trust me, to talk to me-- and he's not going to do that if he senses judgement. 

"Klavier," I say, remembering the man's image. I've never seen him in the flesh, but my daughter's a Gavinners fan. She was devastated when the group fell apart after their guitarist was put away for murder. His action was betrayal; not just to the people whom he was on tour with, but to his enormous fanbase as well. The media went wild. Teenage girls went into a state of what seemed like an eternal depression.

It always seems eternal when you're that age.

Or when you're in prison.

"He's the rock star, right?"

"Was," he says. "He didn't take too well to the change in lifestyle after his band fell apart." He shrugs. "He was always a better lawyer than he was a celebrity, anyway." He doesn't seem either pleased or upset about what he's telling me. "He can focus much better on his work, I suppose."

"So you're quite concerned about his career?"

Something changes in him again. "I've  _always_  been concerned about my little brother," he says. "Klavier and I have an...  _interesting_  relationship."

Interesting. I don't like the way his voice changes and his eyes flash excitedly. It's another expression I've seen, one that I know well. Amongst sex offenders.

Gavin isn't here for anything like that. 

"Interesting?" I ask. I'm trying to keep my voice even. 

Sometimes you learn about other things they've done, things the legal system never knew about before they were sentenced. Sometimes you hear embellished stories, things you're sure never happened and hope didn't. 

"We were very close," he says slowly, his fingers curling into his palm thoughtfully. 

God, I hope this is one of his attempts at disturbing me in order to gain control over me.

"Close?" I ask. I need clarification. I need to know that he's not really that bad, that the paperwork is accurate, that he's just a calculated murderer and that we know the worst about him from his paperwork. I don't like the potential, the bottomless depths that he could potentially have sunk too.

It seems... limitless and underestimated. An abyss.

"Yes," he says smoothly. "Klavier and I were seven years apart, yet he idolised me." He shrugged again and smiled. "I was like his first mentor, I suppose. I taught him the majority of what he knows."

I raise an eyebrow. "You seem quite confident about that, Mr. Gavin."

"Our parents were remarkably busy people, and when they lost a lot of money on the stockmarket back in 2010, our nanny left the house and Klavier became dependent on me."

"How old were you when this happened?"

He smirks, in a do-the-Math kind of way. "I was seventeen, nearly eighteen-- he was nine." He sounds taunting, like the bastard can read my mind and wants to hear my fears, what I don't want to verbalise because I can taste bile in the back of my throat and feel the spot on my neck throbbing. 

His words fail to alleviate any concern I may have had. 

"He was a child prodigy," he says evenly. There's nothing awed or parental or touched about his voice, he's merely stating fact. "I was the one who discovered what a fast learner he was."

I want to retch. I want to hit the duress alarm.

But I don't want to show him I'm afraid.

 

"You were the one who introduced him to law?"

He nods. And for the first time, he looks proud of himself. 

"He started watching me read, looking over my shoulder," he said. "Initially I found it irritating, I was studying myself-- but in the end I learned to tolerate him." He smiles then. "He was only doing it because he was in awe of me. Whatever I did, he wanted to do... and he started asking me about words in my law books, what things meant, to explain the concepts behind the terminology... like a child does when learning to read."

There was a softness in him then, something I hadn't seen before. For a moment, he'd let the mask slip. Suddenly my thoughts that his behaviour with his little brother could have been inappropriate seemed  _sick_. But that was  _my_  suspicion, not his action. He genuinely loved his little brother, it seemed.

As best he could have loved anyone, anyway. 

"It wasn't very long when he suggested becoming a lawyer himself. He had the still-childish dream of becoming a rock star on one hand, and then on the other, this beautifully organised legal mind. He had a sharp memory. Obsession. Focus-- far beyond what most children have at that age. Far more than I did some of the time."

"Did your parents encourage him to pursue either of those dreams?" I ask. "What about yours?"

I don't do this very often, but I'm wondering where and how it all came undone. Most of the men I see to in this context are easily understood; a childhood shattered with abuse and no stability and poverty and parents involved in criminal activities themselves tends to offer less than ideal adult role models, and it shapes and shatters developing self-identity. The Gavins weren't like this, however, Kristoph spoke no ill-will of his parents-- perhaps they were consumed with work, but it appeared their offspring never experienced the kinds of terrifying, traumatic abuse the rest of the inmates here are too acceptingly familiar with. 

He looks to the wall, as if he's seen a bug on the brickwork. "My parents weren't particularly interested," he says. "With the business collapse following their failures on the stock market, they were otherwise occupied. They were busy trying to retrace their footsteps and fix the financial mess they were in." He speaks clearly, with no emotion. He sounds almost  _bored_. "They were pleased for me when I was accepted into law, but were soon consumed with other concerns." He's looking back at me now, finger and thumb twisting his fringe now, as though he's about to make another sharp spike like the one over his shoulder.

I wonder if I've hit him in a sore spot, mentally speaking.

"Not that I blame them."

"No resentment whatsoever?"

"None at all. It would be childish of me to harbour resentment. They are guilty of nothing-- had they had ample time to enjoy their children and be emotionally invested in them, I'm sure they would have been." He doesn't sound interested or involved at all, merely like he's repeating the same damned statement for the millionth time to someone.

I wonder how many people have just wanted to assume that he blames his behaviour on a damaged childhood. Some of the smarter ones try that.

He's not just smart, he's in a league of his own. 

 

"How long do we have remaining?" he asks. 

And that's when I realise that I'll be seeing him for the long-term; his voice betrays him; he can sit there looking uninterested and serene, and yet there's an anxiety, a want, a  _need_  for the session to continue.

I wonder if he's actually not that disturbing, if my colleagues were merely jealous of him; jealous of his unshakable quiet, the stillness, the elegance. Maybe they wanted the upper-class, highly educated childhood he was granted, the opportunity to make a decent wage fighting for justice; maybe they resented the hell out of him for having it and throwing it all away.

Maybe they disliked that he got on so well with the female workers.

"We have about twenty minutes."

He nods. "Ahh," he says. "They won't allow me a clock in here." 

"This isn't designed to be a permanent residence, Mr. Gavin."

He raises an eyebrow. "Oh?" he asks. "When I was relocated to these premises, I was advised to stay in here until I rotted by one of your esteemed colleagues." There's sarcasm in his voice. "And from my understanding, no moves have been made to reintegrate me into the general population."

I nod. I know all this. I wouldn't want him wandering around out there, either.

"I don't really know what they plan on doing with me," he says. He's still smiling, like there's a tragic kind of humour in his predicament. Someone once said that the reason comedy is so funny is because there's an inherent cruelty in it. 

I don't say anything, but he continues. "I was thinking about my death since my return. It was a certainty; under the previous legislation, I actually had the option of choosing how they were to execute me." His smile is now a grin, like he's trying to stop himself laughing. "There's an option most of us never get-- how to die. It's almost quite science fiction, isn't it, being asked how you're going to get killed, as though to someone, somewhere, your opinion still matters." He sniffs. I'm finding the conversation nauseating. 

Yes, I've had to deal with helping those on death row adjust to, and accept death. I compared it to being a  _regular_  counsellor with an office in the hills, helping someone deal with impending death from terminal illness. Except that they weren't convicted felons, and the death row inmates were perfectly healthy.

Usually people don't deal with the news and the discussion very well. The human race isn't good at contemplating mortality. Death scares the shit out of people.

"Am I making you uncomfortable?" he asks. He's peering at me now. "I don't see why I should be... death is a fact of life, especially in a place like this."

I try to will my heart to slow down. 

"You're right," I tell him. "I suppose I'm only human."

"How long have you been working here?" he asks.

"Ten years."

"And yet you call yourself only human." His hand drifts to his chin and I see faint traces of the identifying mark they've mentioned in the staffroom. The scarring. Yeah, it's there. I try to steal a glimpse as he scratches himself.

"Men get stripped of their humanity here," he says. His hand returns to his lap. "The inmates half-expect it," he says. "The workers don't."

He's right about that, too. This place has a way of eating into you and shaping you, and it's like weight-loss. You don't notice it because it happens gradually, but if they did before and after photos, you'd see it, clear as day.

"We were talking about you," I point out. "About your acceptance of death."

He looks like he wants to argue the point, and I'm half-expecting him to either say something creepy about me turning the topic around or to argue-- he's a smartass, and he _was_  a lawyer. He probably misses a good argument-- but he stops, and heads back in the direction of the conversation.

 

"I was given a little sheet to fill out. Comical, really-- a pamphlet explaining my legal rights and the methods of execution I could choose from. Unfortunately, my preferred option wasn't listed."

My heart's in my throat. I dare myself to ask what it was, and no sooner have the words left my mouth and he's laughing.

"What did you  _think_  I'd say?" he asks. "To be  _burned_  alive? To be tortured to death? To be paralysed by some brand of narcotic whilst forced to watch dispassionate surgeons slice me open and remove my internal organs, one by one until the remains of me failed to operate?" He smiles.

I wonder how much I  _really_  want to know about his headspace.

Unfortunately, this is what I'm paid for, and I hope my next client is some petty crim in for manslaughter who was off his nut on crack when he did it and who'll spend the hour trying to convince me he's innocent or calling me a brainy cunt. 

He laughs. "Of course, my preferred option was to go out in the throes of ecstasy whilst being serviced by a bevy of supermodels."

"Oh?" I ask.

"Why the  _Oh?_ , doctor?"

I can't hide my surprise. Yes, it's an assumption, but the files say he's homosexual.  _He_  said that to someone at some point.

"I'm just-- surprised, that's all." Trying to retrace my steps, not cause offense-- "You  _do_  understand that executions were public under this jurisdiction, didn't you?" I pause. "That sort of caper doesn't seem fitting with your... sense of dignity."

"Klavier would have found it terribly amusing," he says. "If he wasn't writhing in jealousy."

I smile. Slightly. Before I have a moment to question him-- to think about questioning him about his motivation-- he's talking again. Smooth, even-paced, calm. "But-- yes. I was given a piece of paper which reminded me of the menu they slipped under the door the day before a court appearance when I was in detention previously," he says. "Check the box--  _hanging_?  _Poison_?  _Electrocution_?" 

He's so casual about it. 

"I wasn't the one who devised that system, vulgar and methodical as it is," he says. "That's the work of  _your_  system." He shrugs. "When it came to the crunch, I was partial to the idea of hanging, or by firing squad."

I'm surprised when I find myself continuing the conversation. "That hasn't been a standard method of execution for peacetime for..." I forget the history. "Years."

"I realise that," he says, "But I was wondering if I could appeal that decision."

Therein is the obvious question.

"Why death by firing squad?"

"Because the cruel and unusual aspect of it is minimised," he says, "Because I'd die quickly and relatively painlessly. Holding my head high."

That's what it's all about.  _Pride_.

We sit there looking at one another for awhile, both of us silent, and my radio fortunately happens to be the bell which saves us from the awkward quiet after the morbid conversation.

"Time, doctor."

"Recieved." I press the button and speak.

"Time's up," I tell him.

"You speak differently when you use that thing," he says curiously. "Remind me to tell you about an assistant of mine."

I nod.

"Does this mean you wish for another consultation?"

"Yes, doctor."


	2. Introductions

It's a week later. 

It's easy to lose the new ones amongst the noise of the regular clients and the emerging dramas within the system, but I haven't forgotten him. 

I find myself wondering, as I'm lead down to his cell-- he's still in solitary-- if he's remembered me, if he's been looking forward to seeing me at all, if the other staff slip up a bit and talk to him.

Every so often I fantasise about leaving this place, about retiring, going on a cruise, taking some time out and writing a book to appeal to the sensationalists and the true crime fanatics.  _Life Behind Bars: Counselling the Irredeemable._  Gavin would feature in there somewhere, because he stands out. Because just when you think you've seen everything, that nothing can creep you out any more or throw you, that when you're sure you've seen the full spectrum of human behaviour... you haven't.

As a writer, I'd say that it's refreshing and inspiring.

  
"You need to get some answers about Wellington," I'm told by Parke, the unit manager, before heading down. I nod. I'd like to know what all that was about, too. When Gavin was moved, there were two witnesses: one was unconscious, the other was silent and refusing to talk. No aggression, no violence, no threats; he seemed worn out and cooperative. He wasn't taken to solitary by force; he  _walked_. 

It's chilling when they compose themselves so entirely after committing an act of violence. It doesn't happen that often; generally adrenaline flows through them, and they can't.

There's self-control for you.

"Did he mention anything about him in the last session?"

"No." I'd have noted it down if he had.  _Read the fucking notes_ , I want to tell him, but he probably hasn't had time to.

"I've got deNong on my arse about expenditure and resources going to waste, and he wants to know if it's going to be safe to put Gavin back in gen pop and he wants him back there safely--  _soon_." deNong: Parke's superior. Fiscally responsible: or scared of _his_  superior. Also known as the bull locking horns with the generally laid-back Parke. 

"I can understand that," I say, "But--"

"This guy's costing us a fortune and if he goes all lawyer on our ass, we're screwed. In time he'll start asking us to keep him entertained. He'll have his  _own_  damned wing."

The Gavin Unit. I'm sure he'd like that.

"How's Wellington doing, anyway?" I ask. "Has  _he_  said anything?"

"No. And  _he's_  a problem, too-- psych're telling me he's loving all the attention and driving the staff nuts."

"So he hasn't said a word about what happened with Gavin?"

" _Nope_." 

"Yet he's talking?"

" _Yes_. Just not about the assault."

I'd looked at the notes briefly after talking to Gavin. Wellington not talking means one of several things: he's in on what happened or there's some inmate scam or code of honor bullshit going on that he's gotten mixed up with, he's scared shitless of retaliation from Gavin, or he's utterly ashamed of what happened to him. 

I sigh as we arrive at the cell. The conversation was hushed, we stopped talking a while from the door. Gavin's sitting on his bed, reading again.

Click goes the lock, and he stands up. The book is placed down on the bed next to where he was sitting.  _Paradise Lost_.

He barely acknowledges me as he walks to the door, arms out as the scanner moves around him, one foot up and then the other, turn around, step back.

"That's it, Gavin, you know the drill." The unit manager isn't as civil as the other staff here; Gavin's a thorn in his side while in here. _He_ probably copped some flack over the attack, too.

The door is opened and I step in.

"Hello," I offer. The Parke looks at me with stony eyes--  _How can you talk to him like he's human_?

I ignore the glare and hear the door close and sit down on the seat, which has been pulled up and placed opposite the bed, as though he's left it there from last week or put it there especially for me. How touching.

"Greetings." There's a sly smile on his face and a  _knowing_  look in his eyes. He glances at Parke, who is walking away from the cell. I subconsciously touch the top of the duress alarm pouch.

"I don't think that man likes me very much," Gavin says idly. "I cannot say I think very much of him, either."

It's chilling how he says that, like he's already plotting his death.

"Let's begin the session," I offer, trying to sound cheerful, trying to change the subject.

"Let's." His eyes are on the corridor, though, staring, fixed, like a sighthound looking at distant, possible prey. We can hear the footsteps down the cement flooring--  _Tap. Tap. Tap._

 

  
"How have you been?" I ask him.

He laces his fingers together and looks bored. "I receive three meals a day, I have books to keep me entertained, and I have solitude." There's a pause, and an almost sarcastic-- "What more could I ask for?"

"Spiritual enlightenment?" I ask. There's silence from him and I regret it. My hand clutches the duress alarm and I'm terrified I'm going to hit it-- that'll teach me for being a smart ass.

Instead, he watches me, amused. And then chuckles softly, as though he's been granted permission to.

"You were afraid of me then, weren't you, doctor?" he asks.

I am even moreso when he asks that, but there's a taunt, a sneer, a  _boc-boc-boc-CHICKEN!_  not too well concealed beneath it.

  
I enter into his game before I've realised it; I don't want him to think I'm afraid.

"No, Mr. Gavin," I say quietly, aiming for his perfect calm. "Why don't we have a talk about some of the things we didn't discuss last week?"

"What do you wish to talk about, doctor?" He tilts his head slightly, looking almost innocent, then, sunny and sweet and curious. 

I gulp. "Let's talk about what happened to Richard Wellington, then."

I'm squeezing the duress alarm so tightly that I'm amazed the damn thing doesn't crack under the pressure.

 

I shouldn't be scared. I'm not usually scared. I'm not  _really_  scared. I'm  _tense_ , that's all.

Gavin hasn't seen the whites of my eyes. He's sitting there, and for the first time, I see what looks like a stray, relaxed gesture; he's stroking his chin. 

I find myself wondering if he's just not prone to growing facial hair or if he's somehow gotten around the restrictions on sharps here. 

"Wellington?" he asks. "What would you like to know about him?"

"I'd like to hear your side of the story about what happened to him," I say evenly. I'm trying not to look too curious, but I am-- an attack like that seems out of character for him.

I'm surprised how how quick I am to think that. Nothing is too horrible for these men to do, no activity is too depraved or too random. 

They're like that.

But not him.

No. He's one of them.

"What did Wellington have to say about it?" he asks. Hand comes down now, onto his lap. 

Maybe I flinch for a second. I wasn't expecting him to ask that, and I should have.

"We're not talking about him-- we're talking about  _you_."

He smiles. "Maybe I'm not prepared to discuss Wellington yet."

"Mr. Gavin," I say sternly, "We  _have_  to discuss Wellington."

He chuckles then. His hand covers his mouth as though he's done something obscene. "Have you a truth serum you're wishing to forcibly introduce to my system?" he asks, smirking, blue eyes sparkling and amused. "Because unless you do, I cannot fathom how you can force me to talk."

He's right. Legally, there's very little we can actually do to him. He knows the law. The worst we can do is keep him here, which is likely what he wants anyway.

 

He raises an eyebrow. "I'd think before threatening me, doctor," he says sweetly. "I still manage to be quite well-connected as it stands." 

"What made you think I was about to threaten you?" He's frustrating me, and I'm annoyed. He's turned the entire session around into his control, and we're verging off-topic. But he's left me an opening. "Are you  _used_  to being threatened?"

"In a place like this," he says in a bored voice, "It's only to be expected."

"Did Wellington threaten you?" 

"I certainly didn't attack him for  _absolutely no reason_." 

Now I'm wondering why he's being so elusive on the subject. 

"For all I know, you might have attacked him so that you could be moved out of gen pop," I tell him, concealing the fact that I'm smiling inside, a fisherman finally reeling him in. 

"That  _could_  be the case," he admits with an almost defeated smirk. "But your theories mean very little to anyone until  _I_  actually confirm them."

"Not particularly," I point out. "As a specialist, I'm expected to report on what I  _observe_. Not on what I theorise." I smile at him. "You already know that, Mr. Gavin-- if your actions and words confirm particular items you've been questioned about, then I will mention those observations in any reports I submit to the staff. It's up to them to interpret these as they see fit."

"No one can be truly objective," he says. Looking like he's about to say more, like he's waving a white flag.

"Wellington's well connected here, too," he tells me. "All of us wondered-- why would a young man with a criminal record-- who'd killed a member of the police force in cold blood-- be spared the death penalty?"

"All of  _whom_?" I'm leaning in, listening to him. If the man hadn't been smart enough for Law, he should have considered voice acting. He's nasal and higher when stressed, but overall there's something pleasant about his voice; it's controlled yet lyrical, intelligent without being pompous.

"The rest of the prison population, according to Ruce. He mentioned to me a few little anecdotes he came upon over the years." He chuckles. "It was almost mentor-like, to tell the truth." There's a pause.  _Dammit, we're meant to be talking about_ you-- "Funny that a top lawyer should end up having a criminal serving a life sentence for a mentor, isn't it?" 

"I suppose it is." I say.  _Funny that a top lawyer would wind up killing someone in cold blood and setting up a plan to kill two others, too._

"Ruce was a veritable treasure trove of fascinating stories." He looks amused when remembering him. Clearly he had an effect on Ruce, too-- the Ruce I knew seldom spoke to anyone. But maybe he observed.

It's always the quiet ones. 

 

"If Ruce could only read and write," he muses. "I wouldn't say he'a a man of poetry, but then again, neither was the Marquis de Sade. And surely some of Ruce's tales could match the writer's in both theme and description."

I'd read part of  _180 Days of Sodom_. Back when I was a rebellious and curious teenager, and when I realised I wasn't going to find  _Playboy_  stashed in my single mother's sock drawer. My eternally youthful face stopped anyone from thinking I was old enough to see pornographic films, and we never had the internet at home. De Sade was the closest I could get my hands onto porn. 

I raise my eyebrows. "Oh?" I ask. He could very well be making this all up. Maybe Ruce hasn't said two words to him. Maybe this is all some elaborate fantasy he's constructed in the absence of people to talk to and other stimulation.

Usually they crack in solitary. Too much space to think eats into people, particularly when combined with a distinct lack of stimulation. But Gavin somehow manages to do without people. Maybe he belongs in the psych unit, maybe he thinks he's dealing with people when he isn't.

"Surely you've heard the stories before," he says idly. "The deMorales/Kitaki rukus which seems to flare up every time there's a crackdown on contraband or a new one joins either of their ranks. Riot attempts-- surely you've heard about  _them_... depraved acts-- apparently someone in the kitchen placed human feces in someone else's food not so long ago."

 _Stickler_. I heard about that one from Kopprer, the man who'd gladly boasted about it to me in a session.

His nose wrinkles in disgust at the thought, but he continues airily. "And there's enough rape around here to make one bored of the subject."

Okay, that's alarming. Unexpectedly alarming. My hands clench and I'm wondering too much; why he's so blase about it, why nothing about him has screamed "has history of abuse" and what the hell made him talk about it like this.

Wellington, thankfully, had not been sexually assaulted. I mentally remind myself of that before saying anything.

"You speak very casually about rape, Mr. Gavin," I say. An opening line.

"It's a fact of life as any other, around here," he says. "And isn't  _not_  talking about shameful and depraved acts a good way to allow the silence which surrounds them continue?"

"It depends on  _how_  people discuss such things."

"I hope you didn't think that I appeared somewhat supportive of rape," he says. It was funny; until then I'd have thought of that as a consideration, definitely something to discuss with him at a later stage. "Your 'objectivity' in this case would be perfectly incorrect, doctor."

"Not at all."

"One does tire of depressing things," he says, dragging things off in another direction. "And it does get boring." 

 _And you're reading_ Paradise Lost.

"There's every possibility you would be less bored if you returned to the general population," I suggest meekly, already anticipating the unamused look he gives me.

"Are you proposing that there will be no more rape and violence outside these walls?" he asks. "Because  _that_  might be interesting."

It's then when I realise it. He's  _scared_. Terrified. He's putting up a front for me because he can toy with me for longer, the longer he stays here, the longer he doesn't have to spend out there. 

"Are you afraid of these things?" I ask. 

He gives me a funny look, and for a second, I think his hand-- the  _scarred_  hand-- twitches. But he folds it in his lap with the other over it. No devil face for me today.

"No," he says. "Though I do find them boring."

"Let's change the subject," I suggest. "Let's go back to Wellington."

He sighs. "Why do I need to talk about Wellington?" he asks. "I'm here for life, sending me back to court on some petty assault charges isn't going to change anything, either-- so it's all rather pointless."

Not for the family and friends of Richard Wellington," I say seriously. "He could potentially sue the prison for what happened to him."

"The negligence of the staff is none of my concern," he says. "I do believe you wish to have a decent profile of me so that you can ascertain my safety level amongst the general prison population."

"There is that, too," I say.

"What about  _my_  safety?" he asks. Fair point. "What about the threats which I've already endured, and then the payback which will probably be orchestrated by Gant and White for what I did to their favourite little lackey?" 

So Gant and White were in cahoots? This was different to what I'd always suspected-- I'd heard some time ago that one headed up the illegal trade in contraband and the other looked after the trade in muscle, and that the two despised one another. They looked like they got along on the surface, though looks can be deceiving.

"Has anyone threatened you?" I ask. "We can take protective measures..." It's futile. Protective measures mean investigating the situation, usually not seeing enough to bring about protective measures, or moving them to a place where their enemies are hopefully poorly connected. 

Which is pretty much nowhere. Except solitary.

A surge of irritation moves through me. He's playing us: all of us, the whole system. He's going to stay here as best as he can.

"You won't get to stay here forever," I warn him. "And you might end up losing your sessions with me."

"Is that a threat, doctor?"

I lean in, serious. "You and I both know what the system does, and how bureacracy always gets in the way. You and I both have an idea of how much the courts and most of the population outside these walls care about prisoners' rights and welfare."

He raises an eyebrow. That's all.

"You and I both know that you could miss out on a session not because of a will to breach human rights, but because I might happen to be the only psychiatric worker rostered on and I may have to attend more pressing cases. You and I both know that you might get declared mentally healthy and stable enough to return to the general population."

"You and I both know that Richard Wellington could only be one of many victims, doctor." 

My blood stops. Maybe my heart shatters and there's a blackness fogging up my head which makes it hard to know if I'm faint or just deathly worried. You get this feeling when you're dealing with gut instincts and  _knowing_  that someone isn't at all cured, but that they're going to be walking right back into the community and going back to torturing women and molesting children. But you have no evidence, of course, so you have to let it happen.

And you know that the worst is.

"What about Gant and White?" I ask.

"Would Gant and White be terribly upset if I, for example, decided to take out my rage and frustration on one of the Kitaki wannabes? Or one of the loners? I could send Stickler to the psychiatric unit and they'd be applauding me, I strongly suspect."

I did, too, but I decided to try another tactic.

"What would you like to  _do_?" I ask him. "If there was a means of ensuring your safety and allowing you to have some stimulating time on the unit-- and if we allowed you to transition back into gen pop easily, would that be more acceptable?"

"Possibly," he says. He's smirking.

I shouldn't be doing it, but I've realised something. He switches it all on and off like a tap. He wants to control me. 

Even though it feels like I'm making a deal with the devil, I'm going to use that against him to get whatever information I need.

"I don't know if I should ask," he says, considering; nervous, like a boy about to ask a girl out for a date or to the prom or some other perfectly almost-innocent gesture-- "Or it if would get granted to me... but would working in the library be too much to ask?" 

He asks so sweetly that I want to say it would be fine. He won't fuck up, because he'll lose his post if he does. Giving people something to lose brings out the best in the behaviour.

Sometimes.

Actually, most of the time, it doesn't work. But it might here.

 

 

 

 

I'm getting ideas as I'm walking out from the unit and into the office.  _The library_. Simple, reasonably safe, low-risk-- it's not like he asked to be put on food preparation or cleaning or anything. He can't get access to much in the frigging  _library_. He likes books. He's organised. He'd probably clean the place up. Hell knows, he might find he likes being a librarian. He might make friends there. Friends who can work in his favour-- he's shrewd enough to do that sort of thing, too. The man knows how to work people.

I whistle to myself as I step into the staff room.

"Someone's in a good mood," Waverley says as I look around to see that we're almost out of coffee. 

"I'm grabbing the last of it," I tell him. The room is empty except for the two of us. "Have you seen Parke around anywhere?" I ask. 

Mil Parke. Unit manager, who's also assigned himself as Gavin's caseworker. 

"Good news on the Gavin front?" Waverley looks up at me as I start making myself a coffee. I'm energised on the thrill of possibly getting something right, and I'm thirsty. Coffee feels like adding a good thing to something good rather than an attempt to remain focussed.

"We might get him out of there," I say. "Says he wants to work in the library."

"He asked Parke for that when he came in. Said no; they had him down in the assembly line and then the kitchen." He sighed. "Fucking freak kept bitching about his godamned fingernails."

I know men like Waverley; guys who seem to think that everyone else is like them; blue-collar types who watch sports and drink beer after work and who complain about how things  _should_  be, with firm ideas about men being breadwinners and women doing the cooking. When he says  _freak_ , he's not talking about the nail polish but the implication.

"I noticed that from his file," I say evenly. I shrug, and sip my still too hot coffee. "I've seen weirder. At least he's not trying to use them as weapons."

"I don't like it," Waverley says. "Half the girls down here think he's a sex god and the other half are on about his brother even though everyone knows the guy's a fag."

I don't say anything. We can have all the workplace tolerance sessions imaginable, but to guys like Waverley who've been here as long as he has, rarely seeing daylight, being gay is about sex and gay sex in here is about filling out paperwork because someone's been the victim of sexual assault.

"Did you see that in the paper the other day?  _Klavier_ \--" I don't like the lisp he puts on as he says his name-- "broke the hearts of thousands when he was photographed with his _boyfriend_."

I'm not really thinking as Waverley waffles on about how disgusting it is, how the Gavin parents screwed up completely because they got not one, but  _two_  faggot sons-- I'm wondering if Klavier has said anything about his boyfriend to Kristoph. Or if Kristoph knew earlier about it. I wonder what it's like for them, sometimes, the sociopaths, watching people they have a fondness for connect easily to others when they can't.

One told me, years ago, that it was like standing behind mirrored glass and watching the rest of the world. And only being able to watch it. Another said it was like your whole life was watching TV, and the only control you had was to be able to change the stations. Or ring up and vote them off if it was reality TV.

I find myself wondering what he's doing now, and am distracted when Parke rushes in.

"Need you," he says, looking at me, and then at Waverley-- "Didn't your break finish ten minutes ago?" Turns back to me and I to him.

"I wanted to catch up with you," I tell him. "I think we've made progress with Gavin."

He stops. He was frantic to tell me something, and he pauses in disbelief.

"He's asked to work in the library." 

He nods. That's all. I've seen the look--  _So he wants something-- big fucken deal--_  but he rolls his eyes. "If it gets him outta there and onto transitioning, I couldn't give a shit if he wants to make lace doilies."

My brain is doing cartwheels of joy. It's rare for these sorts of moments here, and I can't wait to tell Gavin next week. I want to see him  _excited._  I want him to be able to trust me. To work with me.

"What did you want to see me about?"

"We've got a problem on E Wing," he tells me. Looks like some of the deMorales kids have bought some bad shit."

"Any idea where it came from?"

He stares at me blankly. " _You_  try getting them to talk," he says.

We walk off-- quickly-- towards E Wing, and for the moment, I've forgotten Gavin.

 

 

 

 

He hasn't been told the good news when I next see him.

He's sitting on the bed, book in hand; whatever it is, it's old and worn and faded and I can't see the title even after he's closed the cover and placed it next to him before stepping up to the door--  _lift your leg-- and the other one-- right-- clear_ \-- and I step in.

"Hello, doctor." Just as pleasant as always.

"How have you been, Mr. Gavin?"

Nothing to suggest things have changed.

"Well enough," he says. That same cool indifference. "How about yourself?"

"I'm fine--" I start to say-- "But we're here to discuss your situation."

He remembers. They always remember; too much time to think gives people impeccable memory if it doesn't destroy them. 

This is one of the reasons I rarely feel unsafe; I'm not a threat, I'm a human being, I talk to them and care about them because it's my job; I'm not someone to be feared or who  _poses_  a threat. 

"Have you spoken to anyone about my request?" he asks. There's the barest hint of enthusiasm in his voice. Of course he remembers. 

It's frightening as well as exhilarating; I've cracked the surface. I've motivated him. The fear comes with knowing what else lies behind the surface and doesn't dare show me.

"Yes."

"And?" A graceful eyebrow raises, his question. 

"After discussing it with your caseworker and unit staff, it's been decided that you can work in the library," I tell him slowly. "Two hours a day; initially you will be out the back sorting returns and repairing books."

"How interesting." I'm not sure if he's being sarcastic or not.

"I also made inquiries," I tell him. "There are latex gloves on the unit and if health concerns are an issue, you may wear them whilst attending your duties." 

He looks puzzled for a moment; the eyebrow raises again and his eyes-- so pale and blue with such dark irises-- widen a little. 

"Your fingernails," I tell him. "I realise that your former work placements were bothering you because of the damage your hands took."

The look on his face changes slightly. "What I would give," he says with a resigned sigh, "For the simple luxury of being able to do  _anything_  resembling personal grooming." For a moment there, he looks almost pained. A narcissist. Being sentenced to the deprivation of liberty has taken away so many other things for him.

"We can look into that," I suggest. "If you can cope with the library duties-- if there are no incidents, and if you agree to other conditions further down the track."

" _Other_  conditions?" he asks. "Such as?"

"We'll look at some appropriate goals once you start heading in that direction. As it stands, your library assignment will be the first step towards returning to regular prison life."

He nods. "Do you need this cell?" he asks. "It seems perfectly empty down here."

"It's not about that," I tell him. Honest. Warm. Encouraging. "It's about your psychological well-being, Mr. Gavin."

"I'm faring better alone than I was out there." There's a flash of a smile again, a disturbing little warning. He doesn't give a shit, but if he fucks up in the library, it's my neck on the line as well as his.

"Do you understand--" I ask tentatively-- "That I'm trusting you here?"

He says nothing for a moment. Folds his hands and looks at me blankly. 

I cast him the kind of look that's open, asking for more information.

"Trust," he says, considering. "A fascinating concept. Faith, of a kind."

"All men need to have faith in something," I tell him. Why the hell am I shaking?-- "This gesture with the library is me putting my faith in you."

His lips twitch into a smile. As though he's about to laugh. The mark of a control freak; he's got me at his mercy. Why the hell did I tell him that I was taking a risk by recommending him for library service?  _Shit_.

The worst that can happen, I reassure myself, is that he screws up and goes back to isolation. Or gen pop. Depending on what he does. He'll be supervised, at any rate, he won't be near anyone else while he's out the back. Safe as houses.

It wouldn't be beneficial to him to screw up. He's smart enough to know that, and controlled enough to make things work in his favour.

"I realise that," he tells me. 

I'm waiting. Waiting to be laughed at and told how stupid I am and how he's got me and my career in the palm of his hand. He's barely had human contact-- a visit which was prematurely ended, according to record which I didn't get to finish reading-- I'll have to ask him about that-- for three weeks now-- to have someone at his mercy must be like a foodie being starved and then sent to a high class restaurant, all you can eat, paid for by someone else.

There's no malice in his voice. Maybe he trusts me.

Maybe I'm trusting him.

  


 

I turn the focus around; I don't want him to start intellectualising everything, to wax lyrical about philosophy. 

Maybe I can tell a white lie.

"I need to know a bit more about what happened during the visit you had terminated," I say gently.

"Will it affect the promise you made to me regarding working at the library?"

I don't say anything. "What happened?" There. Concern. Trying to hide my own curiousity.

"I had a visitor," he says. He doesn't sound overly concerned. "Nearly a  _month_  and Phoenix Wright stopped by to gloat."

For the first time, there's bitterness in his voice. 

"Can you tell me a bit about him?" I ask. I've seen the vaguest mentions on his file, have heard what the media's told us. 

"Wright trusted me when he had nothing to lose," he tells me smoothly. "As I am doing to you."

"He had nothing to lose?" I ask. I'll admit it; I'm curious about the situation with Wright."

"Yes," he says coolly. "But over the weekend, a month later, he decided to return to visit me, and gloat about what a wonderful life he has now."

There's a sneer in his voice. He's not really  _that_  impressed with Wright's wonderful life.

"What happened?" I ask. "A month isn't very long to build a wonderful life..." Unless you win the lottery, I suppose. 

"Wright, at one stage, was all I had." A flash of teeth which I don't like. "Besides my career." He stares into me, through me, like he's been wanting to get it off his chest for a long time. "I looked after him. I listened to him and paid his way when he needed it, and helped him out of what could have been a messy legal situation when the venue where his daughter works were having some problems with the child labour laws."

What the  _hell_  was this guy involved with? I sit there, hands getting sweaty, no longer near the duress alarm, but waiting, wanting something. If I had a stress ball right now, it would be flat. And squashed into itself.

I nod instead. "You cared about him?" I ask tentatively.

"I was the only one who did, and when people are desperate, they take what they can get, I suppose," he says. 

Then something strange happens. There's a shudder in his voice. "He was beautiful," he says.

It's the first time I've heard him refer to another human being in such glowing terms.  _Beautiful_. He's opening like a flower and yet I can't get too excited; some of these men give a darker, poisoned edge to  _beautiful_. Beautiful can be a drug trip or watching an enemy plead for their life as their face is being stroked with a razor; beautiful can be watching a forest fire or the seven year old girl being photographed without her consent. Beautiful can be lots of things which would horrify sane people.

I don't get too excited, though I note the innocence in his voice.

The bitterness probably is probably genuine. 

If the innocence is, too, then I wonder what Wright's "wonderful life" left my client feeling. Abandoned? Hurt? All the things he won't admit to.

"Who ended the visit?" I ask. There were two signatures on the form; one obviously Wright's-- a PW and squiggle which didn't occur to me at the time, and one unrecognisable, sharp waves. Did Wright bring his daughter in?

The waves and points seemed too sophisticated and organised, in their strange, difficult manner to be from a child. I notice signatures. 

He says nothing.

"Did you end it?" Maybe I should change the subject given his lack of enthusiasm. Still, it might help me understand him. Get him talking. Get him to come to terms with his life, to move on, to reintegrate into gen pop.

"Edgeworth did," he says bluntly. His face is still, like he's been shot up with botox. His eyes are still. But they blaze with utter loathing.

 

Edgeworth... Edgeworth... the name rings a bell. Edgeworth was that defense attorney who was shot and killed in an elevator one afternoon as he was leaving court-- I remember the case on TV when I was at university.

Still, I don't think that's what he's referring to. "Who is Edgeworth?" I ask. "Why did he terminate the visit?"

He stares at me with disbelief. "You have not heard of Miles Edgeworth?" he asks.

No. But obviously the name means something to him; the way he's spitting it out as though he's eaten something unpalatable.

"Maybe you could tell me a bit about him?" I ask.

"There's not a great deal that I know," he says. "He was a prosecutor who went overseas after some personal crisis or another affected him seven years ago." His voice is airy and unconcerned. "Apparently the man was suspicious and had been involved with corrupt activity through his career, though when one considers what a joke the legal system is nowadays, it's hardly a surprise that Edgeworth evaded punishment." 

He's speaking evenly again. The ten year old boy in me, who wants to see what happens when you throw a rock at a hornet's nest, wants that spark to come back into his voice.

"So why was he visiting you?" I ask. "Why did you allow him?" 

Under the visitors regulations, he's allowed to refuse visitors. I can see why he wouldn't want to, being where he is right now, but his loathing for the legal system, and, apparently, Edgeworth, suggested that maybe he'd have preferred to. "You didn't have to," I point out gently.

"I understand that completely," he says. "I refused a visit the other day, in fact."

I raise my eyebrows. "Who was that?"

"Born again Christians," he says, a smirk appearing on his face. "While I'm sure I'd be a particular brand of trophy in terms of  _soul_  value, having been raised Catholic and convicted of two murders and other offences in relation to attempted murder, and having been accused of being Old Scratch himself-- it still stands that I'm an atheist and I believe that they would have irritated me and we just would have wasted one another's time," he says. "My desire for amusement doesn't really extend to wishing to be told fairy tales about salvation, doctor."

Still the calm and pleasantness in his voice.

"So why did you allow Edgeworth to visit you?"

The look on his face changes again; I've hit a nerve once more. I don't want to continually hit it because I'm sadistic and I enjoy making him react, but I need to learn more. He's a sociopath, he's superficially charming; talking about irritating visitors or philosophy isn't going to help either of us.

"I'd heard a great deal about the man when Phoenix Wright was a part of my life," he says. He's thinking, savouring a memory or two. "I managed to be simultaneously horrified by the very idea of him, and fascinated with him." He leans in a little, and pale blue eyes focus on mine. "I believe Wright  _loved_ \-- or at least he  _believed_  he loved-- him." There's a pause. "I find that completely interesting."

"Were you jealous?" I blurt it out unintentionally, and I'm worried, for a moment, of the reaction I'm about to recieve.

"Jealous?" he asks. "Of a man who had a nervous breakdown and disappeared overseas because he couldn't handle a situation which he chose to become involve with-- no-- I'd _pity_  him if he were worth pity."

"In regards to his friendship with Phoenix?" I clarify.

He almost shrugs, and looks bewildered. "Why would I be jealous of that?" he asks. "Edgeworth had been gone for those seven years, and there wasn't anything to be jealous _of_."

"Did Phoenix talk about him?"

"Yes-- a lot. About how he'd come out of the blue and rescue him from some malady or another-- and I remember him saying at some point that maybe he didn't need Edgeworth any more because I'd picked up the pieces."

There's a chuckle in his voice now; it's getting interesting. I know what's coming. I know that we only have five more stifling minutes together in here, too. "Mr. Gavin--" I say to him, twisting control of the conversation out of his hands-- "Why  _did_  Edgeworth terminate the visit?"

He folds his hands softly and there's a glimmer in his eye. He's happy about it. "Edgeworth became distressed after I was recalling some memories with Wright," he says simply.

 

  
There's no malice in what he's saying, no smirk, no gush of stories about anything that he might have taken pleasure at whilst he was involved with Wright. I'm assuming, now, that the  _friendship_  with the man wasn't limited to the platonic, and I'm vaguely curious. Sociopaths can't  _do_  love. Yet Gavin doesn't seem to do jealousy, either.

Once again, I find myself reminded of Waverley mentioning Klavier and revealing his own homophobic views with discussion of the Gavin brothers.  _Does Gavin know?_  I wonder to myself. 

I'm pulled back to thoughts of the Gavin-Wright-Edgeworth scenario, watching Kristoph's demure silence. Still no confession, no chuckle. I've seen sadists use stories of their exploits for shock value. I can imagine how it might have been for Edgeworth, Wright's  _friend_  if not anything else-- getting to hear disturbing stories about another man's less-than-stellar treatment of someone he cared about.

"I think he might have been jealous," he says.  _Then_  there's a smirk, there's the shit-eating grin, the fact that he's damned  _pleased_  that he managed to get under another's skin so easily. 

"Edgeworth was my replacement," he says, "He was the ghost which Wright clung to for fifteen years of absence as an adolesent, and then when things became stressful, he returned to the familiar pattern of his formative years." He pauses again, and looks thoughtful. "Naturally, I was curious; Wright hadn't dampened that curiousity by stating on occasion that I shared some similarities with Edgeworth-- we both had workaholic tendencies, a like for tidiness and order, legal backgrounds, the German connection; there were even little details, if I recall correctly-- he said that Edgeworth enjoyed tea and classical music." He smiles. "Wright was  _hopeless_  when it came to music, however-- to him, all classical music sounded the same." He sounds mildly annoyed, describing it, like he's about to scoff at Wright's lack of culture or somesuch. "For all I know, Edgeworth's and my tastes could be as distant from one another as..." Unable to find a comparison, he pauses. It's the first time he's independently gone off into description on a tangent like that, and he's telling the truth, not fabricating some story for my amusement.

It's like he's realised what he's done, and he stops. "I suppose our time is nearly up, isn't it?" he asks. Amazing that in vast expanses of time, with no clock, he can keep record of how long an hour is.

Until I realise he can hear the door at the end of the corridor open.

I nod silently.

"You will return next week?" he asks me. I'm about to nod again, but he interrupts himself-- "I plan on behaving myself in the library, and if I have a guard standing over me, I suppose I shan't be threatened."

I nod again. I can hear the footsteps at his door, and the tap of knuckles against the lock. "Good luck."

He stares at me from the bed. "Thankyou," he says quietly.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He's sitting on the bed again, when I arrive at the door for my next visit. The chair is in its place and waiting for me; he even walks up to the door, like a puppy in a shelter, obediently lifting his feet and turning around as the air around him is swiped.

"Hello, doctor," he says as I walk into the cell and the door is closed behind me. For the first time, I detect a genuine warmth from him-- he seems  _at peace_.

I can't help but wonder if he's in a good mood because working in the library has given him a funny little window of opportunity, a security breach the staff are yet to become aware of. Give the human mind enough time on its own, and it makes its own fun just to stop going crazy.

He's a sociopath. He doesn't  _do_  genuine warmth. Maybe he feels a buzz of adrenaline like his heart's going to burst when he's twisted the final screw into the plan to destroy someone else's life, but he doesn't-- is incapable of-- geniune warmth and happiness.

Something's going on.

"How are you finding the library, Mr. Gavin?" I ask. I don't even wait to ask to be seated; he seems pleased to see me and quite happy for me to do what I feel like.

"It'd mundane, but pleasant enough, I suppose," he says. "I must thank you for the advice you offered regarding the gloves. I find it much easier to concentrate on my work when I'm not constantly worrying about my fingernails."

He smiles at me, and I smile back at him. For a moment there, I want to believe he's human-- he sounds grateful and intelligent, and pleased that for once he's been acknowledged.

"Did you know that literacy isn't a requirement for employment in this prison?" he asks me. 

Random. Weird. Maybe he's trying to make conversation.

"No," I say. "I wasn't aware of that."

Why the hell is he steering me away from talking about his experience at the library. Is he trying to undermine staff? Boost his own ego? Cozy up to me; trying to appeal to man's need for familiars--  _we're the smart ones here, doctor..._? I'm not sure.

"What have they assigned you to work on?" I ask.

"Well, at eight forty five, I'm lead down the corridor after my breakfast, escorted by two officers, as usual-- I must be still deemed high risk"--

"You're in solitary," I tell him-- "It's procedural"--

"I'm at the library by nine, and I get to spend two hours there before it opens picking and packing requests for other inmates, placing printed slips with their name and location on them into the books, and any time left over I spend repairing and reporting damaged books." He still has some enthusiasm in his voice but he sounds so mechanical describing it. 

Maybe it's the nature of someone who's been in a career where a good memory and a level of a specific type of intelligence is required: doctors, engineers, higher-ups in IT: they think in lists and systems. Maybe lawyers do, too.

"Do you enjoy doing that?" I ask. "I suppose the fact that you can work and need not interact with the other inmates is suited to you-- plus, you're around books."

"I like Miss Grave," he says. It's the first time I've heard him honestly talk about liking someone. And his voice is devoid of that cold, snide confidence that he manages to hide so well. But then again, practically everyone likes Miss Grave. 

But I can't help but wonder: is there a catch? He's rarely talked about  _people_  as features of what he's doing-- they slip into conversations as minor details, afterthoughts, afterwards, but it's rare for him to bring someone up like that, so immediately.

"She knows how to deal with people," he says.

"She's been here for thirty years," I say. No big secret, she'll usually tell the inmates that. There's an innate kindness, an unshakable grandmotherly step to her style; Belle Grave is in her early sixties, and she's one of the specialists, like me-- no threat, no power to exert authority over anyone, and with the openminded almost blase and yet steadfastly _normal_  kind of attitude towards her clients-- and they respond well to her. Every so often, some junkie new kid will threaten to beat her up or rape her, and someone else steps out of the shadows and takes care of the matter and it never arises again. You don't fuck with Miss Grave, because people like her.

 

"She told me that," he says. He smiles again and there's a hint of the old Gavin there, the less enthusiastic man who isn't showing his hand completely. "But she's a good woman: she has an uncanny knack for knowing when to leave someone alone and when to approach them."

I nod. We're not here to talk about the prison's  _librarian_. "I'm pleased it's going well for you," I tell him. "I'm glad you're making an effort with the role."

He chuckles then, a light crystalline giggle covered with his scarred hand. I wonder what his singing voice sounds like: that giggle is almost musical.

I know what he's laughing at and I'm not amused.

"I made an  _effort_  last time I was performing community service." There's that dead yet intense look on his face again, and suddenly the idea of giving him access to  _anything_ beyond a padded cell and a plastic plate for meals seems like a bad idea.

"You know what I mean, doctor." The false innocence. "I trained her very well."

The  _dogs_. A statewide embarrassment which made it to the papers and which threatened  _other_  animals-in-prisons programs around the country. 

The whole thing was a nightmare from the word go.

I'd suspected that training service dogs would be a bad idea for a number of reasons to begin with, and I certainly hadn't recommended the idea. I had visions of the dogs being abused in a variety of sickening ways, of inmates teaching them to fight and the underground gambling starting up again like we had a few years ago when it got really bad; I had concerns about inmates becoming attached to them and not wanting to see their canine pals off to a life outside prison. 

 

Gavin had effectively ended the program. His graduate-- a golden retriever he'd named Vongole-- was perfectly behaved, and apparently the ideal companion. In addition to mastering commands in English, Gavin was attempting to teach the dog Spanish words. He had a project and he was behaving himself-- the dog program was our attempt to get him out of solitary before he'd been sentenced for the additional murder-- and he seemed surprisingly successful.

We all should have sensed what was coming: we only found out that Vongole knew a few commands in  _German_  when someone said the wrong thing and the sweet-natured pooch turned into a professional attack dog. Gavin had escaped punishment for that; he'd said that it wasn't forseeable that anyone would be speaking German on the unit and that he'd planned to advise the programme that the dog had a owner-secret security system built into her. It wasn't _his_  fault that a neo-Nazi had mistaken him for a white supremecist, yelled out a particular phrase, and then had half of his face ripped off.

The dog program was a failure all round, but Gavin's stunt was the icing on the cake.

  
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I'd hoped he wasn't going to do anything to jeopardise his time at the library; maybe he'd learned and matured since then-- I couldn't count on it.

As much as I wanted to.

The way he brings up the dog situation-- and so casually-- is haunting. No remorse, I'm reminding myself, He doesn't give a shit. He'd just as soon win over poor Miss Grave and use her for his amusement.

"Have I upset you, doctor?" he asks smoothly. Gone is the genuine warmth; I saw a glimpse of that for a second. Something to work with, I tell myself.

"My feelings are unimportant," I say, and I can feel myself tensing again.

"I will promise you that I'm not going to harm Miss Grave," he says. "It is not in my interests to do so, it would bring me no amusement, and it would only give me even more enemies-- and amongst the  _staff_ , too-- if I were to do that."

I nod. That makes sense. And after the attack on Wellington, whom he knew was well-connected, protection means a lot to the man. 

"I don't make promises," he tries to reassure me. There's a sweet, sincere, cocked-to-the-side, sunshine-and-daises look on his face. "Unless I'm going to keep them."

He's a liar. His words can't be trusted, though I actually believe he won't hurt Miss Grave. 

"Even when I made promises to those I was in the process of exacting revenge against, I still managed to keep them." He's looking smug. The irritating thing is, he's probably telling the truth, and I wonder what sort of semantics he played when he made those promises.

I'm not thinking about that one too hard, I'm losing my touch; I'm thinking about how maybe, somewhere inside everyone, there's a spark of integrity and humanity, a personal code which can't be interfered with.

When our time is up and I'm leaving the cell, I wonder if he promised them things that he hasn't yet delivered. Like revenge.

And I wonder if there was more to why Edgeworth terminated that visit than he's letting on.

 

* * *

Prison life continues. 

A week later, and Wellington is back in gen pop, cured and stitched and healed and having driven the staff in the hospital wing close to insane. Grandiose discussion about how he was studying to be a doctor before being sent to prison, constant chatter, arrogance and a I-know-more-than-you attitude about everything from other people's medications to musical theatre.

When he was well enough to somehow get corrupted into being part of a plan to get another inmate raped and assaulted in the hospital wing as some sort of revenge thing, it was time for papers to be signed and for him to be returned to the unit.

  
He never said a word about Kristoph Gavin and whatever had happened between them. Sometimes you get things like that, mysteries never solved and patched up before they can be. The prisoner code doesn't welcome staff involvement for most of the time, and sometimes there are things which just happen and get forgotten about or which get found to be no big deal in the first place. Alliances change more frequently than underwear in some cases.

  
The next time I visit Gavin, he's looking unimpressed. I've never seen him angry before, and he's lying on his front on the bed, facing the back wall, like a pissed off cat, ignoring me. He's somehow managed to acquire a newspaper, which he's reading, folded over and furious.

"Gavin. Therapy." Parke's come down with me, as his case worker. 

("I'm getting a bit concerned about Gavin," Parke told me as we walked into the unit. "I'm wondering if the temporary engagement with people at the library has actually caused him to regress.") 

He eyes us from the bed, pouting. I've never seen him like this, and I'm tempted to ask if some other psychiatrist has come in and medicated him with something.

It's unnerving.

"So?" he asks glumly from the bed. The sparkle in his eyes is gone, he looks dead and vacant and pissed off.

"What's the matter?" I ask. I'm waiting for a mention of a dead or ailing relative which no one's bothered to talk to him about. Nothing.

He doesn't even look at me when I ask what's wrong. 

"You know the drill," Parke tells him, "And if you ain't following it in here, maybe getting moved back to gen pop will provide you with examples of how it's done."

He smiles slightly. "I would regard that as a threat, Mr. Parke," he says. The old Kristoph Gavin's coming back, sly and clever and thinking. He walks to the door and is scanned, and we sit down for our weekly meeting in our respective spots.

"Mr. Gavin," I ask again, realising that it's futile and that he probably won't talk-- even though I'm curious as to what's shaken him so badly-- "What's wrong?"

He turns his head, facing, for a moment, the newspaper on the bed. And he says nothing.

"I see you managed to wrangle a newspaper out of the library," I say with a smile. I can see the title:  _The Herald_. "I'd have thought your tastes in journalism would have extended a bit further than that." I'm trying to make him smile, at least, or appeal to his arrogance. But he says nothing.

"When did you get that one?"

The paper looks, from a distance, quite old; I wonder if Belle hung onto them or he's sourced it from somewhere else.

I decide to change the subject because evidently this isn't working.

"I have some bad news," I tell him softly. He doesn't flinch. 

"Richard Wellington is back in gen pop."

 

He raises an eyebrow, for the first time not looking completely uninterested. "I see," he says. Then his voice softens. "Am  _I_  going back there?"

"In time, yes," I tell him. "But you know that already, Mr. Gavin. We're a place of  _rehabilitation_." 

Does he hear the sarcastic bent my voice has taken? Probably; there's another vague watercolour smile from him and then a silence. This is like the early days again. Like I'm going to have to coax him into talking. And we were doing so well.

"So you're not reading Milton any more?" I ask. "Finished that one, did you?" I'm grasping at straws; impersonal conversation might make him warm up a bit. "Or did you get sick of it?" Because despite the temperature-controls remaining at a consistent figure; not too hot, not too cold-- seasons don't happen in solitary-- there's a strange coldness to the room.

"No," he says. "I finished it." 

I wonder if he's going to want to get philosophical on me, if we can chew the fat about theories of heaven and hell and virtue.

No such luck. 

"I wished to read  _The Line of Beauty_ ," he says without any further explanation-- something a bit more modern than my usual tastes and which Miss Grave assumed I would like." There's a distinct fullstop there. "But it was out on loan to someone else." He looks disgusted for a moment. "Having seen what I have in regards to how people treat books is enough to make any man a cynic," he sniffs. "If eighty per cent of the prison population is illiterate, then  _why_  do we waste a good library on them?"

He's haughty and annoyed. And I'm not stupid enough to assume it's about the books. 

"So you took a newspaper with you, instead?"

"Miss Grave allowed me to keep it." There's a controlled but bitter sort of look on his face then, and I'm waiting, waiting for some kind of explosion from him. "She said she thought I looked familiar."

We both look at the paper, folded over in half and lying on the bed. For a second, I think he's been pictured on the page it's on; there's the same pale hair twisted into that strange spike, and a remarkably similar profile, all in printing press greys.

Then it dawns upon me; it's like Kristoph Gavin in reverse. Klavier. The rockstar faggot, according to Glenn Waverley. The prosecutor.

 

  
Was  _that_  what was upsetting him? I'm trying to understand why-- at some point, Klavier's been a regular visitor of his. I assumed that they were on reasonable--  _particularly_ reasonable given what happened between them from the records I've seen-- terms with one another. 

"Were you reading about your brother?" I ask. Stupid question for a stupid person. "Have you seen him recently?"

"No," he says, in a  _you know, you read my records_  voice. He tilts his head to the side, not quite looking at me. "I don't think  _mein bruder_  was able to handle the situation." There's a sneer in his voice when he uses German; I don't know if it's directed towards Klavier who seems to incorporate a bit of German into his over-the-top stage persona-- from what I've heard; or if it's a sweet little reminder towards me about the incident involving a few carefully selected German phrases and that dog.

I try not to let it unnerve me, in case that's what it's meant to do.

"He couldn't handle visiting you in prison?" I ask.

"I suspect not," he says tightly. Am I detecting...  _betrayal_  in his voice? An older brother slighted, a man who wouldn't ever turn his back on his little brother no matter what?

"And since he stopped seeing me, he seems to have been granting some backstage passes to  _someone_ , hasn't he?" 

The sick feeling I'm getting is because I haven't eaten anything for lunch because I was dragged off to E Wing when there was another drug  _problem_  involving one of the drug gangs. Turns out that it's probably  _not_  the DeMoraleses or the unsubtly self-titled Greens who are running the drugs around here, but another kid flipped out and had to be isolated for his own good. 

Gavin's talking about his brother like a spurned lover. His  _brother_.

 

Incest is something you become accustomed to hearing about in this line of work. It tends not to come up in conversation an awful lot amongst the non-sex-offenders; when it does, it's often brushed over vaguely either because they feel ashamed of things which have happened to them, or they're reluctant to confess to more criminal charges. I'm a shrink, not a priest, I tell them. 

It sometimes disturbs me how normalised things become here, and how quickly something surprising can jolt your head back into being horrified by them.

I'd wondered before about the nature of their relationship, but... 

I glimpse at the paper again. No way. A scandal like that about  _either_  Gavin would destroy both their careers. Neither of them would be stupid enough to do something like that. 

Maybe I'm being disturbing and suspecting the worst because I'm so used to it. Gavin isn't an animal. He's an intelligent person-- with a personality disorder-- he does things for _gain_. He wouldn't be stupid enough to potentially wreck his career like that. He's not a sex offender; he's a manipulator but there's no red mark and page full of warnings and behaviour which needs to be addressed.

I'm being paranoid because I'm feeling out of my depth with him. I'm letting his suggestive facial expressions and emotional pulls get the better of me. Maybe he wants me to think that he's been doing inappropriate things with his brother so he can taunt me when I ask him about it.

I'm not falling into that trap.

 

  
"I see it said he's involved with someone." Leave my statements open-ended. Curiousity there but not pushy. "Did he mention it to you?"

" _Nein_." His voice is a sneer once more. "I'm aware of whom the young man in question is, however."

I can't help but raise my eyebrows.

"Phoenix Wright told me," he explains. "It was one of the few things he  _did_  tell me before Edgeworth ended our little meeting."

I don't like the smug lift in his voice when he says that. It's like he's planning something. 

"Oh," I say evenly. "I can imagine it being disappointing when your immediate family doesn't mention that there is someone important in their lives. It must feel..." How? Like they're not  _trusted_  to know the truth. In a way, I can almost see why he's bothered by it.

"Part of it's that," he says. The look on his face hardens. "Then there's the fact that the interview in the newspaper reveals more about him than it should." I don't ask to see the paper, but I can hear the tightness in his voice, like he's constipated. "Either Klavier is trying to  _get at me_ ," he states, "With his choice of partner-- or he's somehow managed to develop feelings for the person who destroyed my life."

 _Wright_?

I don't say anything, but he continues. "I know betrayal, doctor," he says. "Although I have been  _accused_  of betrayal, I never betrayed anyone. I always kept my promises, and I never lead anyone on." There's that glare again. "People allowed  _themselves_  to think what they wanted to of me." 

He looks philosophical then, and surprises me by going off on an unrelated tangent. 

"I have always abhorred hunting," he says. "It hardly seems like a match of wits when one party has size, speed and brains and advanced weaponry on their side whereas the other only has instinct and the environment they're familiar with." He pushes his glasses up his nose. "It doesn't seem  _fair_."

 _Neither did trying to poison a young girl and killing her father without their knowledge,_  I'm tempted to mention, but I don't. His ego is running the show right now, and at least he's talking. He likes to take the moral high ground, to be the good guy, to be intellectually superior. 

In his view, anyway.

"Ergo, it would not be  _fair_  of me to betray someone unjustly." There's a smile again. "At heart, I am a defense attorney who just wants to see everyone have a fair deal in life."

He stops himself, and the eyes glance at the floor.  _Guilt_?

 

"Wright was a different, more complicated matter," he says dismissively. "I'm sure I shall tell you about him later on--" And then, like those magicians caught up in the whole mess that lead to him being here-- it's like he's waved a cape or something, and the conversation is back where it was five minutes ago. Flick-swish, sleight of hand, you didn't see anything.

"Betrayal sickens me," he says. "For it wasn't just my brother who betrayed me."

I nod. I'm confused. I don't know any of these men he's referring to, but how could Klavier betray Kristoph by finding a lover if it's not the worst possible scenario? Surely Wright and Klavier didn't hook up--  _that_  would have made the papers a long time before now given both their well-known public profiles. 

"The man who destroyed my life, my freedom--" I'm mentally hearing  _Wright_  in my mind, but I don't say anything. Maybe my mouth opens in anticipation for it, to mouth the word with him, to get confirmation--

" _Justice_ \-- is now his lover. Supposedly."

He sounds thoroughly disgusted, like he's about to  _spit_  or utter obscenities rather than the thinly-disguised, still kind of creepy double-entendres I've had from him so far.  _Backstage passes_. Indeed. 

" _Justice_ ," he sniffs-- "If you were not aware-- was my  _protege_ , doctor." His eyes are narrow, furious slits, like he's a snake about to lash out angrily. "I gave that man the time of day when no one else would; I encouraged him like a little brother-- I  _looked after him_." He doesn't sound hurt anymore as he did about Klavier's percieved betrayal, just furious. 

"Not only does Justice then choose to sell me out and destroy a career which he could only fantasise about-- but he then drives in the spikes a bit deeper and decides to corrupt my brother."

 _Corrupt._  Interesting choice of words there, Gavin.

 

His lips part and he exhales. I'm drawn to this expression, I haven't seen it before. It looks so ordinary and  _male_ \-- rough and real-- rather than this delicate, beautifully controlled and ever-so-polite personality I'm greeted with once a week.

His breath comes out in a little puff; like he's winded. Upset. Reliving hurt.

Perhaps I'm wrong; maybe he wasn't just using people, there  _was_  some emotional investment in there and now they're all gone and moving on with his life-- it  _hurts_. 

"Do you want to talk about Justice?" I ask tentatively. There's not much on the file about him-- he's a young defense attorney who worked for Gavin and wound up unravelling everything during his first trial, sending him to prison for the murder of Zak Grammarye. Only no one  _knew_  it was Zak Grammarye at that point. 

Gavin might have blamed Justice-- but it was merely a case of abdicating responsibility. Icarus-like, he'd soared high on arrogance and a sense of invincibility-- perhaps with a little more caution, he'd have remained a free man.

He placed everything he'd done in one courtroom and still thought he could evade detection. 

Justice saw through him.

And that was all I knew; the report being even more brief than my description; my own realisation of the events being helped along by a few newspaper articles;  _Rookie Lawyer Finds Gavin Guilty_ \-- that sort of thing. Justice's triumph wasn't the headline; Gavin's fall from grace was. At the hands of a rookie, no less. His _own_ rookie.

It must have wounded his pride, and I realise that asking about him is skating on thin ice. I'm surprised when he exhales quietly and offers a soft, "Justice." As though fondly. As though he could be speaking about times much more innocent; his own innocence perhaps, when he was the same sort of young lawyer he assumed his protege was, when all was good in the world and justice was a noble idea and not the man who'd brought about his downfall.

"He was a good kid," he continues. 

"Yes?" 

There's something almost fatherly in the way he's remembering, and it's strange, because he never seemed the type to want to nurture and take in a responsibility that wasn't his. 

But Bruto Cadaverini never seemed the man to have a homicidal protectiveness for his granddaughter, either. Someone who'd ordered a number of murders-- which we all know is higher than what he's serving time for, someone who, in his twilight years, slit another inmate's throat for daring talk about hurting his little girl. You never know what to expect with these guys, where their soft spots are.

Maybe Gavin really does feel betrayed by his "good kid."

He smiles slightly. "I hired him because he amused me," he says. "For years, I'd avoided the lawyer pools, I'd not wanted an assistant; I was focusing on my own career and didn't want something to become a responsibility-- or a  _lia_ bility."

I nod. He's enjoying telling the story. 

"I didn't even keep plants in the office. I didn't want to be worrying about watering something and sustaining it if I didn't have the time or the concern. The closest to  _plantlife_  in my office was  _wood_ \-- I miss the wood furniture." His nose wrinkles. "It's all metal in here, jarring and cold and dull."

The man does like his aethestics. "I don't even have the chair and the bookcase I was granted last time," he says. " _Klavier_  now has those."

He's controlling the conversation again, leering all too close to getting to the point where  _Klavier took something else of "his"_  and I don't want to see the rage, I've realised.

I want to see what came before; why Justice was such a highly-valued commodity.

"So you weren't expecting to be responsible for someone else's  _career_?" I ask him gently.

He chuckles. "Not at all. But Justice had a tenacity and innocence about him that I couldn't help but find endearing-- like a young, idealistic Howard Roark, he sent the office a letter of application and was ignored as all unsolicited letters of application were.

"A week later, and I recieved another letter. And then another. And then one morning when I'm pulling in to work--" he smiles fondly-- "I remember because it was raining-- I'm confronted by a shivering kid in a blue suit with a fuchsia tie standing by the office door, holding an umbrella."

He remembers what the kid  _wore_. And Klavier is the one with the reputation for being an image whore.

"The suit was like a haunting reminder of what Wright must have been at that age," he says, "Wright who I was, at that stage, locked in a strange dance of affection and destruction and mutual orgasmic paranoia with-- this young man was dressed in what appeared to be a replica of his glory days attire from the courtroom videos-- and I looked at him-- and laughed. It was too entirely coincidental that he'd dressed like that-- he was some student selling cheap overseas phone call plans or an earnest do-gooder signing people up for monthly charity donations."

I could imagine a haughty, professional Kristoph Gavin's reaction to that.

"He stuttered when he spoke to me; there was some garbled speech about being a lawyer who needed experience and who'd picked  _me_  to be his mentor.

"I told him to go away."

I found that hard to imagine; I'd always suspected Gavin was a creature driven by ego. Apparently not.

"The kid was at my office door, every morning. He'd just sit there, persistent and not saying anything. I had security remove him once or twice, but he'd wander back like a baby animal which has decided that the first thing it sees outside the warmth of its mother is a parental figure to be emulated."

He looks down, and shakes his head casually. "Eventually, he wore me down; he was persistent and I  _was_  starting to feel the work pile up so I brought him in one morning. I explained that I wasn't an easy boss to work for, that he'd probably be scratching the door to get out within a few hours; and surprisingly, he just sat down, shut up, and took to working for me."

 _And I'm sure you loved that_ , I'm thinking.  _Absolute power._

"It was about two weeks in when he dared initiate a casual conversation with me, and in that time I'd realised that I saw something of myself in him.

"He'd been underestimated and overshadowed his entire life. He'd been shuffled around foster homes throughout his childhood; he was a quick learner and had an almost intuitive sense about how to deal with people. He lacked confidence, that was all."

I nod. With that nod I'm discarding the sociopath diagnosis--  _no_ \-- he's a man who saw a kindred spirit, a man with severe trust issues who erects walls to stop people getting to know him. A man who has to master people intellectually not for amusement or gain, but for control.

That he empathised with Justice enough to bring him into his previously well-guarded world is important.

He smiles then. "I  _did_  look after him, doctor. I grew to like him once I'd made him get rid of the suit-- which he boldly informed me he'd found in a thrift store-- there was an honesty and innocence about him which was--  _touching_." Another smile. "I set him what should have been an impossible deadline one morning and explained that I would take him out that afternoon if he completed all his tasks." He looks thoughtful. "He shouldn't have been able to manage it; but he did. Eager and enthusiastic and charming-- and with a razor sharp mind and extreme efficiency-- he'd managed to be done by one and sat there and asked if I needed him to do anything else."

If Gavin  _was_  a sociopath, that would have been too much temptation. 

"I shut down my computer, I smiled at him, and that afternoon I took him out to a high end mens' boutique and he emerged wearing a different outfit. I bought him lunch. Over lunch I proposed a wage for him which would allow him to move out of the share house on the rough side of town where he was spending his nights." 

He sounds positively touched when he's recalling it.

"Why?" I ask when there's a silence suggesting it's time for some prodding from me.

We have a matter of minutes left.

"Because I developed a level of affection and appreciation for him." He looks confused, like he can't quite explain the feeling, as though the description has escaped him. He's eloquent and organised; he doesn't have mental blanks. Yet I'm seeing him have one right now, like he's trying to find the English equivalent of  _schadenfreude_  or  _feierabend_  and _can't._

This isn't a man that doesn't know or do love.

This is a man that doesn't understand it. And the lack of understanding scares the hell out of him.

"I requested he give me his old suit; he didn't need it any more; I wasn't to hear of him wearing another man's clothes... I suggested the red which he settled on." He smiles again, but it's bitter and sad;  _hurt_  which can't be acknowledged. 

"I wonder if he still wears it today."

  
I hear the footsteps down the corridor, and he does too; there's this funny glance that he gives me which is almost resigned and disappointed, like he's irritated that our time is up.

I've cracked him. I know I'll think about this later with a sense of triumph and happiness, but he wants me to stay-- he  _trusts me_. He's not a sociopath. 

All seems good in the world, even when I catch that strange look from him as I'm escorted out and back down the hallway.

 


	3. On Guard

I try not to pry too much.

  
I know these men have lives on the outside, families and friends and relatives; lives made complicated by their own incarceration, psyches cracked and destroyed by criminality.

What doesn't get stated in therapy sessions I try not to worry about. I don't pore through telephone books, wondering about the whos and whys of former lives and current police-registered visitors. Sometimes it all comes to a head when someone's bro, their homie, their co-offender, a long-lost cousin-- arrives in prison. Criminality can run in families.

But when I see the name Daryan Crescend on the report, my eyes widen. I know who Crescend is; I remember him from the papers. An angel or a devil; corrupt but for a worthy cause-- no one's certain. Crescend's story ran through the papers like the media had hit gold; his incarceration had effectively destroyed one of the world's most beloved rock bands, apparently, and Daryan, with his abnormally large, phallic-shapped hair, was a memorable face.

Daryan was Klavier Gavin's bandmate. And best friend.

  
I've not dealt with Crescend much since he arrived; there was an initial consultation which was brief and only served as a formality-- no, he wasn't suicidal, no chance of mental illness, no, he didn't feel like killing anyone. And he didn't feel like talking to me. He had the demeanor of a very pissed off raccoon trapped in someone's roof. He made smart ass remarks and had the vocabulary of a sailor. I assumed someone like him would have fit in a place like this in no time.

Crescend was generally disliked throughout the system, though; he was sullen and kept to himself. New inmates would try to take him on as a means of showing their strength and establishing themselves in the prison pecking order. He didn't engage with anyone, and in some ways, this made him a target. In other ways, and generally when it came to the staffing issues, it made him easy to handle.

 

When he said he didn't give a fuck, he wasn't being rock and roll-- he meant it.

I suspected his star had faded, that the media and the fans had forgotten about him, but somehow word got out to the community when a group of Kitakis cornered him in the rec room and seemingly randomly, beat the living shit out of him. 

 

He had concussion, head wounds, and required emergency treatment. And no one would talk about why.

 

 

Crescend genuinely didn't seem to know why he'd been targeted, either, which just added another level of surreality to the situation. 

I was never sure if he was a coward or still sporting that "Who gives a fuck?" bravado he verbalised repeatedly-- he was the type to rat out anyone; he had in the past-- but now, his bewilderment was unnerving.

Crescend received visitors: there'd been some murmuring amongst high-level prison staff and a few strangely connected media officials; he could get visitors if nothing was leaked about his condition to the papers. There'd been scandals over the years-- the press didn't need more fuel to add to the claims that the prison was understaffed and those staff were overworked, overstressed, and burning out, that corruption was rife and that Big Wins Kitaki-- who'd recently returned as one of our other high-profile inmates-- was paying off various officials to run his drugs operation unhindered.

Big Wins was another tabloid dream: if the Kitakis weren't in the news for their lavish lifestyles and brazen gang activity, they were the one-time American Dream for the crooks who went straight for a while. 

Then the truth came out-- the pie business was a front for a drugs operation-- Big Wins and his massive import business collapsed in on him like a house of cards, and they were back in the news-- fraud, drug trafficking, money laundering, conspiracy to commit murder; the police had had some big wins of their own.

Why they wanted to kill Crescend was as much a mystery to us as it was to them. But the officials didn't want the public to know.

 

 

Prominent music journalists who'd requested visitation recieved it, provided that they merely reported on the life of a man gone downhill, a sort of Where Are They Now? for still-enthused fans of the Gavinners. An odd little inner-circle of people who'd signed privacy statements could come in and offer their wishes and company if they wished; as Crescend was only a low-grade risk, the attitude to his visitors was lenient. Being unable to move thanks to a broken leg meant that he received his well-wishers in his hospital room. He even had relative privacy; a worker stationed outside his door and that was it.

And Crescend relished it; he hadn't had that much attention since the hype about his arrest.

  
It didn't interest me, but I was required to visit him, to assess his psychiatric condition, to make sure he wasn't escalating in some fashion with all the attention and fact that he was bedridden. And management pushed me to get to the bottom of why it had happened.

Crescend had been typically uncharming and foul-mouthed on the days I'd seen him; that was no surprise or of much interest.

But there were two incidences which did pique my fascination: the Wednesday morning when I first saw him-- I walked in to do my initial assessment; to find that he was already in a meeting with someone-- his legal team, apparently, wishing to sue the prison for breach of duty of care or something.

I wondered about the lawyer who would take his case. Someone  _game_. Someone well-known; Crescend liked the celebrity high life.

The nerve of the man was nothing unexpected. I'd left the hospital wing, allowed him his privacy-- I'd been early-- and returned after a cup of styrofoam coffee.

 

Turning the corridor, I was confronted by what appeared to be the legal team. I wouldn't have taken note had it not been for my previous encounter with Gavin the day before.

  
Fuchsia tie.  
Blue suit.

 _Phoenix Wright_.

It's strange looking at someone and knowing that you know about them and they have no idea who you are and what you know. 

Standing next to Wright was his prosecutor friend-- a prison visit hadn't changed  _his_  dress sense from the usual outlandish mulberry suit he was always photographed in, and the massive collection of ruffles at his throat. I recognised them. They didn't recognise me.

I offered a nod of hello and acknowledgement-- Edgeworth shifted away slightly from Wright, uncomfortable, as though he'd been caught doing something nefarious-- and then stared at him for a moment. "Friend of yours?" he asked.

Wright looked confused, and they both looked at me.

I introduced myself and extended a hand. "I'm the prison psychiatrist-- how is our patient this morning?" 

Edgeworth snorted. "I take my hat off to anyone who can decipher a message or see any significance in his random obscenities," he said. There's a tightness in his voice, as though he resents being here. 

This was the man who ended the visit with Kristoph Gavin. 

  
I can't help it; I'm curious as to why. I want to know what he said, and I never will.

And the man standing next to him was  _Wright_. Gavin's unclassifiable nemesis and lover and amusement and downfall. My mind flickered to Gavin's description of Justice; how he'd taken him in, in a sense, looked after him financially-- and I wondered if he'd used those sharpened skills on an unsuspecting and broken Wright.

"I get enough of that here," I said with a shrug. "You forget about it after awhile."

You remember the ones who don't swear.

"He's a thoroughly unpleasant individual," Edgeworth said.

I noticed one of Wright's eyebrows shift and a look of annoyance appear on his face. "He's my client," he said. There was pride in his voice.

I thought he'd been disbarred. 

They say that the camera adds twenty pounds, but it also softens people. Edgeworth came across on television reports as uptight and overly sensible, but the reality seemed to be that he was harder, more sarcastic, and less diplomatic with the self-censorship of unflattering thoughts of others.

"At least it's not Gavin, I suppose," he said.

There's an anger-- a rage in his statement that makes me all too interested. It's not professional, impersonal anger, it's thinly-veiled fury, the type of rage which makes parents shoot child molesters and lovers avenge their beloved's deaths. I wondered what he was so angry about. 

  
 _Jealousy_? I can imagine Kristoph Gavin finding this amusing, ruffling this pristine, organised, tightly-wound man. Watching him explode.

Wright moved closer towards him, then glanced at him-- and then me. 

Stupidly, I smiled and gave them a non-committal half-shrug. I wondered how it felt to be Edgeworth, knowing that Wright was still happy to visit the man who'd tried killing him-- and who'd destroyed his life for a period-- even since he'd come into it, and Wright, theoretically, should have moved beyond that.

I wanted to ask why. I wanted to observe them; their awkwardness and attempted professionalism was fascinating. It was strange looking at the man who could have given me so much insight, seeing him restored to his former glory-- yet knowing I couldn't say anything.

 

I walked towards Crescend and gave them a non-committal nod. Wright did the same, Edgeworth offered a formal "Good day," with a dry undertone suggesting he knew that it  _wasn't_  a good day because I was working  _here_ \-- and I walked in to start the day's work.

 

 

 

I've become used to the ritual as he has. I walk the corridor, I don't say much to the staff who now look at me with knowing expressions-- yeah, I'm one of the workers who works with that crazy Gavin in solitary-- I wait for the door to be opened and I say my hello and step in once he's wanded.

All is calm.

He seems pleased, in that quiet manner he has, that I'm here, that we can talk. I've been distracted this week, but as I was leaving the office, Parke gave me good news. Good for him, at any rate.

Parke and I should be having a formal meeting about his progress. We don't have time; there's always some drama or another, Parke's off to a meeting because it seems there's been a media leak that something's up with Crescend. 

"That's all we need," Parke grumbles, "If we can't keep this quiet, we're going to be swarming with media and fans hoping Gavin's paying him a visit."

"Gavin?" The Gavin on my mind isn't the one he's thinking about. 

"The rockstar." His voice is dead and far too tired; he's overworked. He spent years working his ass off to get this position, now he's having to work his ass off because it's his job. He'll be one of those guys who has an unexpected heart attack in his early fifties, a workaholic who internalises his stress.

"Oh," I say, "I'm about to see the other one."

"Him-- yeah, we need to give him some positive reinforcement. He's been behaving himself and there's a worry if there's no reinforcement for good behaviour, they just relapse." 

Which makes sense.

He looks at me blankly. "You're the brains trust on the guy, you've talked to him enough-- what would be a decent reward?"

By  _that_ , he means,  _"What would he appreciate which would fall under prison guidelines?"_  No access to contraband; Gavin  _could_  smoke if he wished, but there's nothing on record about him being a smoker. He already has his books. Contraband regulations mean he's not getting pornography, anything which could be turned into an obvious weapon, or illicit substances.

My mind is drawing a blank. He didn't comment on the condition of his nails since I ensured that the library work allowed him to wear disposable gloves. 

"I have no idea," I tell him. "He's got all the access to books that he needs. He doesn't complain about the food. There's nothing else we could take away from him."

"Makeup?" Parke asks. "Cosmetic stuff?" It's such a crude and stupid suggestion, but I don't respond like that.

"He hasn't requested anything about that," I say. I'm trying to think. It's like choosing a meaningful gift for someone, and I've always been terrible at that.

And I  _want_  it to mean something, to count for something. While gangs have been beating up on rockstars and while another new inmate goes to the psych ward after a gang rape no one wants to talk about-- Gavin's been behaving himself.

"What about music then?" Parke doesn't give a shit. Parke's a busy man hoping to ply his charges with something-- anything. "Just about all of them like music-- and Gavin's brother's a rockstar. Maybe he'll want to hear how his brother is doing it solo."

I don't know that he'd like that idea at  _all_ , but music is one normal connection to the outside world denied to inmates in solitary. 

"I'll ask him," I say before we're both out the door, he's off to a damage control meeting, and I'm off to see Gavin.

 

 

"I've got some good news for you," I tell him as I sit down into my designated seat.

He raises an eyebrow gracefully, and a smirk forms on his lips. "No news?" he asks. "I was always told that was good news, doctor-- I'm mildly disappointed then."

I can't help but smile. At the fact that he's joking with me, in his dry, arcane sort of way, and at what happened last week. We've built rapport.

Admittedly, I kind of like the guy. He's brighter and more interesting than the usual inmate, he's intelligent and he has more to talk about than most of them do. It's almost sad when you assume the potential mind which is being wasted.

But you don't get sad; I know this. You do your job. If you get sad, it will destroy you. Then you're just out of a job and another has-been.

"No," I say, my voice full of warmth. "I've heard that you've been making progress." 

 

There's a worried flicker in his eyes for a moment, and he looks down uncertainly and then back up at me. "If I shall be rewarded by being moved, I shall have to hurt you," he says. "Badly enough to be considered mentally unstable."

Calmly. Too calmly.  _Shit._  

"The supposed  _freedom_  of being sent back to the general population is not a reward."

He's made a threat against me. I'm frozen. Stuck between knowing that he doesn't mean to hurt me, that he doesn't  _want_  to, that this is about cold hard logic and not emotions or mental illness run riot.

This should be noted down on his report. But when that happens, he won't get his privilege, his reward, his  _music_ \-- and he might just escalate.

Essentially undoing all our good work. All  _his_  good work.

I wish I'd never heard that, even though I can understand why he's said it. I'm not usually torn like this; we don't negotiate that; but the fact that "freedom" was never on the cards in the first place makes it even crueller. 

 _Do I feel safe with him?_  I wonder to myself. Only I can be the judge of that.  _And... yes. I do._

He's too rational and calculating to harm someone without meaning.

"Being released back to gen pop isn't an option at this moment, as you are aware," I state.

Oh god. Denial. I shouldn't have done that. I don't usually do things like that; but he's played fair with me and I'm not going to keep his trust by reporting a non-existent threat.

He smiles at me.

"You're not holding me to ransom," I tell him, a growing strength in my voice. "That is your one and only chance-- which I shouldn't have given you-- to not make threats against me."

"I apologise, doctor," he says quietly. "I spoke before I thought, and before I listened to you." He looks worried for a moment. "I'm just understandably concerned for my safety."

  
Not that I can blame him. The attack against Crescend seemed to be unproked ("You tell ME, doc, why the fuck a bunch of drug-running cunts came outta nowhere and beat the everloving shit-fuckery out of me, huh? I don't know dick about their trade and they damn well know it...") and then the new guy-- not so new to the legal system but new to  _prison_ \-- was so brutal and horrific. 

"I realise you are, Gavin, but I hope you realise you can't stay here forever."

"Gant will die," he says breezily. "Then I might feel safer on the unit."

That, too, is too casual. My fingers trace over the pouch of the duress alarm.

"That wasn't a threat, doctor," he says with a low sneer in his voice. "The man  _is_  nearing eighty."

He has a point, and my finger curls back into my hand. I never knew he had any issues with Gant.

"Is Gant of concern to you?" I ask.

I  _know_  Gant has power on the unit. I  _know_  his execution failed and afforded him a pardon. I  _know_  he essentially keeps the order amongst the inmates; that he has friends all over the unit in terms of other prisoners and in terms of staff support-- his position on the outside has helped people who work here, friends and relatives of people who've worked here. Law and order runs in families-- there are sons and daughters of staff who got their foothold in the police force or other areas thanks to Gant's influence. And it's an unspoken rule that everyone likes Gant, the eccentric with the booming voice and the big ego.

Despite Gavin's assurance that Gant will die soon, he still doesn't look his age and he doesn't seem like slowing down any time soon.

But I don't tell him that.

"Gant does not like me," he says. "And since Wellington and I became involved in the incident which landed me in here, I think it's a safe certainty that in some form or another, Gant will seek revenge upon me when I return to the unit."

"Wellington?" I ask.

He gives me a withering look, the look a kid gives a teacher who wants everyone to just get along and who knows nothing of the internal politics amongst school students.

"Wellington is one of his  _friends_ ," he says. "In short: Wellington is of some use to the man and in desire of protection. So he has formed some sort of unholy alliance with Gant."

I don't want to think about what Wellington could offer Gant, a man old enough to be his grandfather. So I don't. I just look at Gavin, wide-eyed and curious for him to continue.

"I don't trust the system, that's all, doctor."

"Very well," I say. I can't argue with him there. But I make a mental note to keep an eye on Gant's files and to do some digging of my own. 

"Still," I say, "I have the offer of a reward for you given your progress. I hear you're doing well at the library; Miss Grave has reported back and stated that you're efficient, you have caused no problems, and that you appear dedicated and enthusiastic about your work."

He smiles ever so slightly then. "I take pride in my work."

"Effort does not go unnoticed-- and Parke and I feel that you deserve some form of reward which recognises this." I pause, waiting for him to stop looking confused and to suggest something.

"I don't know what you might like," I say, still waiting-- "But... he suggested that you might enjoy some music."

He smiles then, broadly. "I commend him on knowing me better than he appears to," he says. "Unless that was merely your way of claiming your own idea was someone else's in order to show me in some fashion that my case worker is a good man."

I ignore his dissection of the subject.

"So you would appreciate some music?"

"Yes, doctor." He's still smiling. "Thankyou."

It's a childlike, joyous smile. "I wasn't sure if you enjoyed music," I say.

"I, like every other warm-blooded human being, appreciates poetry and the abstract lull of song," he says quietly.

"Any particular favourites?"

"Many," he says. "Contrary to belief, I actually appreciate a wide variety of artists." He pauses, thoughtful. "I wasn't terribly impressed with what passed for prison radio here, and I cannot say I had any particular affinity for the standard  _pop_  nonsense many of my contemporaries seem to enjoy, or the music enjoyed by gangs and drug users... I like meaning and substance, beauty and intelligence."

I wonder what he thinks of Klavier's music.

"Classical?" I ask.

"Yes. Very much so." He smiles. "No one has come close to most of the classical masterpieces. Show me a piece that conveys the same raw emotion and beauty and passion as the 1812 Overture." He smiles again, a child, excited, suddenly realising the potential there is to be had in the world.

"Tchaikovsky?" I remember reading part of a biography some years ago. 

He nods. "I have find memories of opera, too." Another smile.

"I corrupted my assistant, I think." He chuckles softly. This is almost like having a normal conversation with him now.

I find myself wondering what he was like as a mentor and teacher, what Justice gained from him beyond a new set of clothes and legal experience. 

"Apollo had never listened to classical music before he arrived in my office," he says wistfully. "I had to change that."

He really seemed to care about him. It's funny; beneath some monsters there is a soft side. I've seen killers who have soft spots for children, women or animals; often they're the ones who surprise you. But now, little is surprising me about Gavin. I know not to expect anything.

"How did he take to it?" I ask.

Gavin smiles again. "Initially he asked where the words were. So I played a few operas for him." He smirks. "Our tastes differed: he enjoyed things he could somehow vaguely recognise. He wasn't especially interested in some of the more modern, abstract stuff, or the older, more obscure pieces by composers he otherwise seemed to enjoy. He seemed to prefer the subtly of strings to other instruments."

It's touching, in a way, seeing him look so free at the memories. "He came to know what sort of mood I was in by the music I played if I wasn't particularly talkative, he'd speak to me with almost childlike awe about the pieces he  _did_  like. It was..." And he trails off again. 

I'm wanting to ask if he gave Klavier any kind of musical education, if he inspired him, but I don't dare. Maybe his mind's reached the same place mine has, and he sighs, and, without question, changes the subject.

"I've noticed there have been two mentions of Daryan Crescend in the papers this week," he says. "Speaking  _of_  musicians who are no longer in the scene."

"I noticed that, too." I'm not really supposed to be talking about other inmates. Privacy regulations. What happened to Crescend has nothing to do with him.

"I doubt it was a coincidence," he says. And then randomly-- "I wonder what Klavier thinks about it."

It's interesting how he's brought Klavier up. I don't know what to say, so I say nothing, waiting for him to continue, or to drift into another conversation by himself.

"I'm certain Klavier would read the papers."

I nod. 

"I cannot believe it's mere coincidence," he says again. "Two journalists from rival papers don't just appear to interview the same fading star with a criminal record in one week unless something's happened." He looks almost amused then, and I know I'm not going to like what he says. "Did he find out about Klavier and get upset?" he asks.

"What about Klavier?"

"That Klavier is now involved with someone?" He smiles demurely again. Almost like he's  _pleased_ ; he brushes his fringe out of his eyes and looks to the side; the door at the very end of the corridor opens and he can already hear the footsteps. 

I'm saved by the bell once more. Both of us know this.

"I'll make sure you have your music, Gavin," I say quietly. It's our last little moment of intimacy before the officers break it. "Classical," I say, "Anything in particular?" 

"Tchaikovsky, of course," he says, "And as much Wagner as you're able to find. And... Bach--" another smile and he's twisting his coil of hair-- "He always liked Bach."

"Nothing more modern?" I ask.

"Not that I can think of right now," he says. "I never cared for random  _noise_. Some jazz might be nice."

I can hear the footsteps rapidly approaching and nod to him and stand. He knows what's going on, too.

"Thankyou, doctor," he says, with a human sort of pleasure I've never seen from him before.

 

 

 

 

He's listening to Bach's  _Air_  the next time I see him. The music sounds particularly maudlin, echoing down the passageway. I notice the guards-- Waverley and Towne, exchange an unimpressed glance as we're walking there.

"My tax dollars are paying for this shit," Waverley mutters, and neither Towne nor I say anything in response. Waverley's had a rotten morning: there was a code grey this morning, and he was on duty up there escorting a visitor down from the wing, and apparently short-staffedness meant that it was him-- versus half a dozen pissed-off inmates hellbent on attacking the visitor. 

Waverley left the office to get away from the paperwork, I suspect. Escorting me down to solitary while the unit's on lockdown was a simple, relatively non-traumatic task after what he'd dealt with.

I didn't ask who the visitor was seeing, nor why so many inmates had taken issue with him, but as we approach the door, I notice something change in his face.

And I don't like it. It's a sadistic, cruel glimmer of having something over someone else, a sneer of power. He holds the plastic wand, and waits as a smiling Gavin stands up and walks over to us, preparing to be scanned before I'm allowed in.

"Got news for you, buddy," he says.

I've never seen anyone else talk to an inmate in solitary like that before, and I'm furious. He should have discussed this  _news_  with  _me_. There was nothing on the report about Gavin this morning; as his psychiatric worker, I'm supposed to know about things concerning the inmates I'm working with. 

Waverley isn't just screwing with  _Gavin_ , he's undermining me.

"Hello, officer." Gavin looks curious. Unafraid, but interested; this is a deviation from his regular routine.

"'Pparently that brother of yours popped in for a visit today," he says nastily. The unspoken line being  _notice how he didn't visit_ you.

My mouth opens. Was this the visitor who was assaulted? It makes perfect sense; who  _else_  would Klavier be visiting but his old bandmate and friend; who  _else_  would that many inmates have an issue with other than a famed prosecutor? I turn to Waverley as he sweeps the wand over Gavin, who is trying to look as though the information is nothing special-- and wait.

"Clear," he says in monotone, as though nothing's happened.

I'm furious. My first reaction is to want to punch Waverley for every wretched, sadistic thing that he's done since he's worked here. For the claims of bullying other staff which were never substantiated. For the taunting of inmates. For the fact that he seems to get into far more high-risk incidents than just about any other worker here. For undermining me like that, for the sheer  _meanness_  of trying to upset and surprise Gavin for no good reason.

I inhale. I'll write it up and submit a report to Parke and deNong; hopefully the higher-ups will finally realise what they're dealing with.

 _Hopefully_. Because for the most part, no one pays attention to taunts against prisoners around here. He'd have to do something grossly unprofessional-- unignorably unprofessional-- to suffer any kind of punishment from his supervisors.

"See you in an hour."

I step into cell and sit down, and Gavin and I stare at one another, not saying anything until the footsteps down the corridor are drowned out by the mournful strains of  _Air_.

I choose not to bring up Klavier's visit; there's not much I can tell him anyway; I only learned of it then.

"Isn't this a bit depressing for you?" I ask of the music. "It's a beautiful piece, but..."  _But what? This is a man who has a strange concept of beauty._

He described  _Wright_ \-- who, while I'm sure part of the reason I can't see the appeal is due to my own sexual preferences-- as beautiful. But the way he spoke of the beauty in Wright was intense, chilling; was Wright beautiful because of his spirit and physical appearance, or was his trust and ability to be broken down what Kristoph Gavin found alluring about him?

"I like this piece for contemplation," he says. A pause. "And now that we've been advised of Klavier's visit, which I'm certain you weren't aware of, either, judging from your initial reaction to that man's announcement-- there is much to contemplate, isn't there, doctor?"

 

He knows that I didn't know.

"I suppose so," I say. "Though I was unaware of the visit until--"

He shakes his head and offers a throwaway sort of chuckle, brushing his fringe from his eyes. "Don't trouble yourself," he says. "I could see clearly that you weren't told about it until then, either." He then looks at me intently. "You  _should_  have been advised of it, shouldn't you? So you could decide whether or not to share the information with me?"

He knows damn well. And I hate what Waverley's done, because a breakdown in communication, a gap, an inconsistency like that usually shows the prison population that there are human failings and errors and agendas, and that they can be exploited. Thankfully, I suppose, he chose to do it here rather than in front of others, though I wonder to myself what  _else_  the man's done.

"Yes," I say. "You're correct." There's no point in arguing with him. He's not stupid, and he's no risk to anyone here.

"Thankyou for your honesty." I like the way he says that; like he knows that I'm not feeding him a line about how the system is just and the workers behave in an upstanding and professional manner all the time. We're supposed to give them that sort of reasoning, because it's supposed to make them trust the system and the workers, but Gavin knows as well as anyone who's not new to the system that it's as corrupt as most of its inmates.

"Do you know anything else?" he asks.

I know about the assault. But I don't know the specifics, if it was in fact Klavier who was assaulted. I know nothing about the nature of the assault, barring that a code grey was called over the radio and that it took several minutes for the workers to arrive on the scene.

"Nothing," I say. I can feel myself sweating under my shirt already; I'm not lying, I'm  _possibly_  lying. And I don't like the idea that I'm lying to him. I wonder how he manages to do it; to tell half-truths so easily and casually and to be so charming and deceptive all at once.

 

  
He's not a sociopath. If he were a sociopath, that would be the special talent he has; the survival mechanism in lieu of being able to truly contemplate and understand emotion. He's cared about Klavier and Justice-- and maybe, possibly, at some stage, Wright-- caring negates the sociopath diagnosis.

"Will you keep me informed of anything I may wish to know regarding the visit?" he asks. Before quickly adding on a suffix-- "Within your professional capacity, of course, doctor?"

I nod. 

"Thankyou." 

There's a brief silence and I wait to see if he wants to talk. He doesn't, he seems to need me to prompt him.

"How is it going at the library?" I ask.

"Very well," he says. "Poor Miss Grave has been having some hassles with the printer; it's slowed our progress on a few issues-- we can't seem to be able to get new paper for it-- I suppose the supplies to the units are unreliable... I remember when I was working briefly in the kitchen and how food orders were often incorrect. It was as though Supplies had absolutely no concern about what we actually required..." He trails off, thinking. "Which is, I suppose, a good metaphor for the entire experience of being incarcerated, isn't it?"

I smile. "Have you ever thought about writing your memoirs?" I ask.

"Why?" He looks puzzled.

"Because you have a way with words, Mr. Gavin." Maybe I'm being too enthusiastic. You don't get used to normal conversation here.

He shrugs. "It's an idea, perhaps, but I would need equipment I'm not permitted to have access to in solitary."

"I suppose it's a motivation for moving back to gen pop."

"To write?" he asks. "If I try to create anything here, tall poppy syndrome will cause others to seek out anything I produce and destroy it. And what would I write about? The fall of a young and arrogant hero? Descent into the underworld?" He chuckles. "That was done centuries ago, and far better than anything my mind could try to envision." There's sarcasm in his voice. I can see him imagining himself as some sort of otherworldly mythological figure.

I can't help but smile. At what? The resilient way he shifts from worrying about Waverley's deception and the visit? I expected him to hound me about it, to assume that I was in the know-- but instead, he's imagining himself as a tragic figure to be written about. Or he's trying to.

"I wasn't made for the arts," he says, folding his hands. "I lack that... spontaneity that the artistic mind needs." A thoughtful pause. "I think I'm much more suited to purely analytical and academic pursuits." There's a thoughtful look on his face. " _Phoenix_  was artistically inclined," he says vacantly.

"Phoenix Wright?"

He gives me a withering look. There aren't a great deal of other  _Phoenix_ es he could be referring to. He doesn't even nod to confirm my statement: it's obvious.

"He was an arts student before transferring to law," he says vaguely. "I never knew that until much later into our relationship." Another one of those sweet, carefree smiles. "It's funny what you find out about people after you think you know them..."

I hate it when he says things like that. It makes me uneasy. Uncomfortable; I'm not sure why.

"Of course, there were so many  _other_  things I didn't know about Wright in the early stages either. All I knew about him was that he was a well-known attorney who seemed to get into trouble a lot and that I wanted to break him into pieces."

At least he's honest.

"I had my reasons for wanting that," he says calmly. "The man was a threat. He took what was rightfully  _mine_. I didn't-- couldn't-- trust him-- and yet..." He pauses again, thoughtful. "He interested me. I can't entirely say why-- there was something about him which wasn't easy to forget-- he just had this strange presence, and I longed to see how it worked."

He sighs. "The process of reverse-engineering interests me: to find something perfect and desirable and to take it apart and see how it works-- wouldn't you say, doctor?"

Duress alarm. It's there. He doesn't mean it literally but the metaphors-- oh, god, why does he like metaphors so much?-- make my stomach churn.  _He only did what he did to Wright because he was a threat...and he didn't kill him..._

No. He left him alive and struggling, like an insect with most of its legs removed.

  
"I didn't  _hurt_  Wright," he says peacefully. "If you'd spoken to Wright after the initial sting of disbarment had happened, he was bruised and sore. But he...  _rose from the ashes_ , I suppose." There's a smile. Another one. I don't know if I dislike or understand it.

"I helped him as best I could. I was merciful. I assisted him when he needed to get back on his feet. I offered him legal service and money when he needed it." He sighs. "It wasn't personal, doctor."

Of course it wasn't.  _Just business_.

I watch his hands unfurl and he links his fingers, twisting them together and then lifting them and twisting them again. I can see the dark hint of the scar on the back of his hand showing.

"Unfortunately, for me, it became personal."

That's when he looks uncomfortable. His hands stop moving and he turns slightly towards the wall. Bach is still playing and he blinks and pushes his glasses up his nose; like he's trying to make himself forget something, or word it in a more appropriate and less sentimental fashion.

"Do you care to elaborate?" I ask. Tentatively.

"My concern for Wright and his wellbeing grew over the time I knew him. It would be a lie to state that I just watched him, as though a researcher, indifferent and impersonal-- if I had intended to assume that role, it disintegrated readily." He nods. "Wright developed a reliance on people when the reliance on alcohol threatened his good standing with Child Services-- he grew lonely; he loved the little girl he'd taken in-- but he longed for adult company." He looks at me again, considering. "Funny-- and quite sad-- how people disappear when you become something else due to circumstances beyond your control, isn't it?" He looks about the otherwise empty cell. "I suppose I could say I understand more now than I did when it happened to him."

I nod, silent.

"Everybody loved him. And everybody walked away. And so, he was left with me." Another smile. "I suppose that's similar to our situation, doctor. Metaphorically."

 

I find myself wondering about the relationship-- the nature of it-- that he had with Wright. Edgeworth's terminally annoyed face flickers into my mind then from the other day-- Gavin  _knows_  about him. I wonder what he thinks of him.

And of Phoenix, now back to practising law, having been encouraged on by his new partner.

"Except for the fact that I'm not trying to bring you down at all," I tell him with a slight smile. I find smiling is a good way to deal with people with control issues, a smile is a submissive display, friendly, open, please-don't-hurt-me. It makes it easier for others to engage with you when you smile.

"No, doctor," he says with a nod. "You're just here to assess and placate me, aren't you?"

I'm shocked by the simplicity of his answer. "You may not want to break me, but the aim of therapy is to  _change_  me. To crack into my soul and find the undesirable and to reshape it. To hack my system and install what is supposed to be a superior operating system, one which is compatible with other users of our vast network."

Metaphors. Again. I feel my jaw tightening. It's not fear. It's just not a smile right now. I'm thinking.

"Have you reached a diagnosis yet?" he asks. "What do you believe is wrong with me?"

I can't lie. I can't take the quick and simple answer because he's neither quick nor simple. My gut wants to say he's a sociopath with narcissistic undertones, but that would be a stock-standard response, and he's not quite a sociopath. If I needed to be quick with him, I'd offer Personality Disorder Not Otherwise Specified. Except I don't know if this is reactive to something that happened; I don't know enough about his childhood, I don't know where he's been vulnerable.

I don't want to write him off.

He exhibits control-- too much to be accused of having a reckless need for his own desires. He might be sadist--  _might_ \-- though he didn't seem especially excited about the murders; they were purely functional. 

The fact that he cared about Justice and Klavier suggests that there's something more there.

"I don't know," I admit.

He doesn't smile serenely. He looks positively surprised. "I would have thought I'd have been labelled a sociopath," he says. "Not that I know a great deal about psychology, but I would have assumed you would have deduced that much from the records and reports."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because most people don't look for details. Most aren't meticulous, especially in a setting such as this one. We're animals in a slaughterhouse, cram as many of us in, get us stunned and dealt with and processed as quickly as possible."

I can feel that bead in my neck throbbing again. It hasn't for awhile, and it pisses me off.

What he's just described is accurate, but it's one of the areas I pride myself in. Ten years here and I haven't turned into that. I think of Miss Grave-- thirty years for her, and she hasn't. We're not on the floor, we're not regular workers, we have more time and less intensity. We don't have to turn into that.

"I'd have hoped you had more faith in me," I say quietly. I don't know why, but I  _do_. I kind of like the man. He's intelligent. He's... I daresay, interesting. 

"That remains to be seen, doctor," he says.  _Then_  comes the smile. "Though I must admit the reluctance to quickly make assumptions about me is appreciated." 

The CD has stopped playing and I decide to change the subject. 

"How are you finding the music?" I ask. "Not sick of Bach yet?"

It's a safe subject for him, I suppose. "No," he says. "I could never tire of such beauty." 

I find myself wondering about getting him in to some sort of music program. I know they run them here for the well-behaved inmates-- since Kristoph was pretty much responsible for the demise of the Service Dogs in Prisons program, I doubt any one will be eager to take him on, but with some reassurances and nice-looking reports, I might strike gold.

"You've played instruments, haven't you?" I ask.

"I played the flute as a child, and I've been playing the violin since I was ten," he says. "I wasn't particularly good at either, but I did appreciate getting to learn how everything falls together. It's different when you listen and you play at the same time: you develop a greater understanding." 

I nod. "I played saxophone in high school," I say with a jovial grin. "I got kicked out of band because I didn't practise." 

He laughs. I was almost expecting an insult, but he laughs. "Klavier was threatened with expulsion because he fell behind with his musical education as a child," he says. "I just to jokingly threaten him if he didn't practice." He sighs. "He never appreciated classical music or the understanding of it," he says-- "I remember being most disappointed until I learned that his way was just...  _his way_." His nose wrinkles with distaste. "I never understood the appeal of that pop nonsense." He shakes his head and chuckles, casually brushing his hair out of his face. 

He could be a regular man talking about his younger brother.

I smile at him, and he smiles back. "I remember that Justice wasn't terribly fond of rock music, either--"

Then we're silenced by the deafening shriek, the fire alarm yell of th duress alarm. They don't throb or pulse, but the noise rings through the system, and there's no longer the static hum of a CD not being played and Kristoph's gentle, nasal voice, there's ear-splitting  _eee-eee-e-e-e-eee-eee_  and he wrinkles his nose in distaste.

There are footsteps running down the corridor, and I hear Towne yell out-- " _Lockdown!_ " over the ringing.

Evacuation. I've got to get out.

Gavin looks started and surprised but stays on the bed as Towne and another worker I haven't seen before come to the door. There's a muffled noise which I can't quite make out from my radio. I'm being asked to leave. Gavin understands; surely he's heard duress alarms go off before.

He looks understanding as the door is opened and I slip out, offering an apologetic wave and a smile. I'll see him next week. I'll make it up to him.  _What the hell is going on?_

I turn as the door's locked behind him.

He's still sitting on the bed. 

And for some strange reason, he's smiling.

 

 

 

 

"Something's going on." Parke looks around nervously, surveying the too-crowded staffroom which isn't designed to accommodate everyone at a moment's notice. Everyone but the staff up at the hospital wing anyway. "And I dunno what it is, but I'm willing to bet it's more of that drug-related bullshit between the Kitakis and the deMoraleses."

There's a murmur of agreement throughout the room, a rumble, like when you're surrounded by a flock of pigeons.

Waverley sips his coffee. "So whaddawe do? More searches." 

Parke gives Waverley a point-- that kind of you-got-it-buddy point, like he's firing a handgun. "That's the drill. While everyone's on lockdown, we search the public areas. I know they're hiding shit in here and I know they know something we don't know.  _Yet_." He's still surveying the room. He's cautious. 

"Some of our longtermers are pretty pissed off about what's gone down-- Gant and White protested quite loudly about being dragged back to their cells--"

"Gant?" Towne looks surprised. "He looked all right to me."

"He was pretty pissed off when I saw him," Lily pipes up from behind some of the others. Lily's one of the few female staff who's stayed here for awhile. She's little. Unimposing. Non-threatening-- she's like me. No one gives her any shit. Rumours of Waverley and two others who worked here sexually harassing her have been unsubstantiated. She's hard, in the way that people go hard when they have to. Women tend not to last long in this industry, but she has. And she still manages to have decent rapport with the inmates.

"Yeah?" Syd Denham, a sporty guy in his mid thirties-- looks over at her. "Quiet as a mouse when I went past."

"You know what it  _is_ , don't you? He thinks Engarde's to blame for it all."

Oh, Engarde. I wouldn't be surprised if he's got something to do with it; he was our star inmate for awhile and what got the ball rolling when it came to the state declaring capital punishment to be cruel and unusual. Fans of  _The Nickel Samurai_  didn't want to think about their pinup being a murderer, but they also didn't want to think about nine thousand volts racing through his system. Some say that the Save Matt campaign was what spearheaded the government and the courts into action around the state's capital punishment laws. 

Somewhat ironically, then, Engarde's seemed hellbent on killing himself since he arrived. There have been a couple of suicide attempts and persistent drug use; he said a few of the wrong things to a few of the wrong people and wound up in the hospital wing as a result of it. It quietened down somewhat since he was moved into Gant's cell-- and either the old man took him under his wing or scared the beejesus out of him. 

"Engarde's not using any more," someone pipes up across the room.

"That's what he says." Lily doesn't look convinced.

" _Anyway_ ," Parke says over all the discussion-- "We're not going to discriminate: three rooms a day for each of you. I want everyone signing off on the registry book once the searches are completed--"

I find myself starting to grow bored. Procedural stuff has little meaning to me; I'm not in the business of doing room searches and extra patrols. I'm superfluous, here only because we've all been rounded up because Parke's just had a major incident on his hands.

Belle, chance have it, is standing next to me. I don't notice her immediately until I see how she's standing, looking as bored as I am. As the prison's librarian, she doesn't have to worry about procedural things either. We spot each other at the same time, and she smiles; that grandmotherly smile which warms the hearts of colleagues and inmates alike.

"Hello, doctor," she says quietly. She's got pearlescent pink fingernails and is wearing a bright fuchsia shawl clasped with a clip that looks like it's from a handmade market. She doesn't look her age.

"How's the library keeping?" I'm so tempted to ask her about Gavin for some reason; but I can't and don't. I shouldn't. There's no legal rulings in place saying that I can't discuss clients with other workers, but it would feel--

"I must thank you," she says in an undertone as Parke continues talking about the new heightened security procedures-- "for the best damned library assistant I've had in  _years_."

I know who she's talking about, and I smile and let her continue. 

"That Gavin-- he's wonderful-- so very efficient, and he seems to know his literature."

"He's smart," I say offhandedly. "He used to be a lawyer."

"I heard that," she says. "He doesn't talk very much, but he seems a sweet lad-- it's funny-- I always thought it was his brother who was the lawyer. I saw a photograph in the newspaper a few weeks ago which I could have sworn was  _him_." 

I chuckle, and my eyes move around the room. We're not the only ones talking in hushed tones.

"They do look similar, don't they?"

"Right down to the hair style... it's funny how they wear their hair, isn't it? I don't see any of the others in here doing that-- he's so very well groomed, poor thing. It must be awful in solitary."

"He seems quite comfortable, I'll assure you," I say. "Doesn't really want to go back to the unit."

"I've heard that too," she says. "I suppose he's worried about the others inundating him with requests for legal advice."

Her sometimes naivete can be charming and equally terrifying. In this case, it's charming.

"He's got such lovely hand writing, too," she continues. "Old fashioned, almost, like copperplate. It's lovely to watch him write."

I nod, realising that I've never seen his handwriting on anything before. I've seen his signature, but that's been it. It's strange how you don't notice some things until they're pointed out to you.

"And he's such a whiz with that computer."

Hang on.  _Computer?_  He's not meant to be using the computer. My heart stops for a moment. Memories of the reports from the dog incident race back to me for a split second; if he's compromised this program--

 _I'm trusting you_ \-- 

Why the hell did I say that to him? He's used me, played me, he's probably organised what went down today-- but  _how_ \-- and more importantly,  _why_? Was this some ploy to demonstrate how unsafe the unit is and why he needs to remain in solitary?--

"Oh, not the  _computer_ ," she says, and I feel myself breathing again. Air races down my windpipe, into my lungs, and colour returns to my face.

"He's not allowed to touch that, and he knows that. I'm talking about the printer-- I've still never worked out how to fix the wretched thing-- when it runs out of paper, he's always been so good at getting it working again." She lowers her voice a bit more. "Hamm, he's lovely-- who usually escorts him to his sessions-- he knows even less about the computers than I do." 

 _Hamm_. He's probably a good choice for supervising Gavin. He's recently come back after stress leave: like a lot of us who stay for any length of time, things have happened to him. He was injured during an attempted riot some years ago, he hit the bottle pretty badly, and his two sons and wife left him. He's calm, though, and ultimately quite harmless. I can't see him irritating Gavin in the same way that someone like Waverley does; he's not a reader and won't try to compete intellectually-- he's just an all-round good guy. 

Hamm's sitting at the opposite end of the room, and is one of the few listening intently as Parke goes over procedures for room searches.

"Anyway," she says, "I must commend you on a job well done in bringing young Gavin to me." She looks worried. "I hope he won't lose out on his sessions after this. He does seem to enjoy them."

I hope not, too. But he shouldn't: that was paranoia earlier; there is absolutely no way he had any involvement with what looks like a fairly obvious drug gang rivalry. 

I feel guilty about having doubted him and suspected the worst, particularly as I know he's not doing that to me. 

Belle stops talking to me when Parke shoots us-- along with others involved in their own discussions-- a wary eye and I stand to attention as he calls the meeting to an abrupt end. 

"And since we have some extra staff here," he says, eyeing Belle and I-- revenge for talking during his meeting, I guess-- "Is there anything you'd like to ask them?"

A barrage of questions hits me--  _Can we put Wellington on medication? Why isn't so and so on methadone? Does aspirin interact with antidepressants? How do you know when to call a psych?_

I make a mental note to put in a good word for Gavin to Parke about the library.

 

 

 

 

I can hear music once again as I'm escorted down to his cell the following week. 

All is calm on the unit. The five men sent up to the hospital wing after the midday drug-related brawl are back on the unit; predictably, no one's talking, but as I pointed out to Parke, Gavin had nothing to do with it, and to punish him for actions which others were involved with, which he had no idea about-- isn't going to assist with his reintegration.

"He's got that MP3 player," Parke says uncertainly. "Shouldn't that be enough?

We used to give them CD players back in the earlier days, once they'd reached a particular level of presumed safety. Then the CDs started getting broken and used as weapons, the CD players became hiding places for drugs; entrepreneurial smartasses learned that you could make all manner of interesting shanks with  _parts_  of the CD players. 

The MP3 players are black boxes with speakers built into the sides, and music loaded onto them at the discretion of programs staff or case workers. They're virtually indestructible, so Parke's concern annoys me.

"It's an MP3 player," I say. "He still needs to have something to  _do_."

"I thought he liked it in there."

"He needs  _meaning_  in his life."

"He gets to think about the two and a half murders he's doing time for. And the fact that he was spared the noose." His voice is withering, I'm a bleeding-heart shrink, what the hell would I know?

I don't argue with him.

The door is opened into the solitary wing. Tona, the new guy who rushed down last week when the alarm went off, walks alongside us and says nothing. He's still got that nervous twitch in his step, his eyes are full of interest in the way new workers can't help but have until something in them adapts entirely.

I wonder how long he's going to last. 

Because what we're walking into isn't at  _all_  creepy.

There's the strange swirl of melody echoing in the hall, and then the gravelly voice which takes me back to my university days when music from before we could remember was cool. I find myself recognising the music, unable to quite place it, irritated, because if I got a line I could recognise, I'd be able to sing along... 

It sounds different, and then Parke and I become aware of why. Amongst the music and the voice, there is another. Higher, nasal, not a pretty singing voice, and far more clipped and stiffer than the original vocalist.

 _I've seen the nations rise and fall_ _  
I've heard their stories, heard them all  
But love's the only engine of survival..._

"What the  _fuck_?" He nudges me. There's alarm in his voice, the kind of alarm that comes with a usual routine being wrecked. His career, and therefore his life, with the hours that he works, have been built around routine. And this is a definite change in what he's used to.

"Thought you said he wasn't regressing." He nudges me again, but my eyes are on Gavin; he's sitting on his bed, and the volume of the music-- and his own deadpan singing has obviously blocked out the sound of our footsteps. He looks blissfully lost in his own world; has he regressed or is this his mental time out?

 _Your servant here, he has been told_ _  
to say it clear, to say it cold:  
It's over, it ain't going  
any further_

"Didn't know you were a choirboy, Gavin." We're at the door and he's finally seen us and looked up. There's a tinge to his cheeks, like he's been caught doing something shameful; he looks up at me and smiles.

The song continues in the background between us, forgotten--

 _And now the wheels of heaven stop_ _  
You feel the devil's riding crop  
Get ready for the future:  
It is murder..._

\--as Gavin calmly walks to the door like a trained animal, Parke unlocks, Tona is watching curiously, as though he's been told about wanding in some recent induction session-- and I'm standing there, watching Gavin watch the three of us, with the chorus ringing around us.

"That's gonna have to go off while your session's on," Parke says to him in monotone, offering no space for discussion on the matter. "It's disrespectful."

Gavin waits while the wand is moved around him, raises his feet and then smiles. "I apologise for the disturbance," he says demurely. He walks to the MP3 player, switches it off, halting the music mid-song, and sits down on the bed. "May I have my psychiatrist, please?" he asks.

 _His_  psychiatrist. I'm communal property here, I'm no one's specialist or doctor, I go where I'm needed. There's a mark of impersonality about the manner in which I deal with my clients. There's usually no long term therapy; most of the inmates don't particularly want it, though I can see the appeal when you're in solitary and you're Gavin.

I'm sort of flattered that he sees me as "his" doctor. I can't help it. Many of them only see me once and won't remember me; I've seen some of them in public post-release-- I'm a forgettable face in the crowd. Of course, it's beneficial to my safety that they  _don't_  remember me, and I don't want most of them to, but Gavin's... different.

"Don't talk about your workers like that," Parke chides him. "He's taking time out to be here, so I'd like to see some respect."

"I apologise, Mr. Parke."

Choirboy indeed. The smile could win over an entire courtroom.

He's watching me, and I give him a smile.

"You wanna talk to this asshole?" he asks. Good naturedly. Gavin's watching me, waiting for a response. Parke doesn't aim to shitstir in the sort of way that Waverley does-- and I remember the last time and realise I still haven't addressed it with Parke-- I'd been booked to assess DeLite after the assault last week and it completely slipped my mind. Parke makes stupid friendly-teasing comments which try to level him down to the functioning of his clients, he's a knockabout guy, he's got a sense of humour and a rough edge, he's one of them.

Unfortunately, this doesn't work on someone like Gavin, but there's absolutely no way of telling him that. He's seen the reports and read the paperwork, but there's a part of him which doesn't, never will-- understand him.

"Good."

I hear the door open and step in, giving Parke a nod as I sit down on my specially-reserved chair. "Have fun," he says sarcastically, and I see the door close and hear the footsteps in the now oddly otherwise silent corridor.

 

  
"How have you been?" I ask him. Memories come flooding back to me of the abrupt ending of the previous session; I feel compelled to apologise, though part of that is for my subsequent mental accusation that he was somehow behind it-- and I remember the smile on his face as I was leaving, and I am torn. Why the smile? Was I missing something? Is he, at heart, like all the others and amused when the authorities lose their controlled movement and go into panic mode? 

"How have  _you_  been, doctor?" he asks silkily. "You did run out on me last time." 

There's a smile on his face as he says it, and I'm momentarily stuck. Everything floods back to me from that day; running out of the Solitary corridor with Towne and Tona, the barrage of questions and the discussion with Belle in the staff room; most of all, my mental games where I somehow convinced myself that Gavin was responsible for something he clearly had no involvement in.

"I'm sure you've heard duress alarms go off," I tell him. "You would have seen the unit go into lockdown before."

He smiles. "Of course. Though usually, there is no one with me when a duress alarm goes off, I never see the human reaction; I hear the siren and then continue hearing it until someone thinks to switch it off." He looks at me with a melancholic smile. "They forget about me, sometimes," he says. Is there a note of something sad in his voice then? "I'm all the way up here and secure, and when something happens on the unit, they seem to forget that I can hear what's going on."

To a point. And I know he's curious about what went on out there, too. For all his avoidance and disdain for the rest of the prison population, he's still curious.

No man is an island. Not even Kristoph Gavin.

"What happened?" he asks again, more directly. He's leaned forwards and pushing his glasses up his nose.

"The unit was put onto lockdown," I tell him.

"Did something  _happen_?" he asks.

"There was a dispute between two of the rival gangs," I say. "I'm sure you'll know which ones."

He looks at me blankly. Maybe he didn't observe the others that much when he  _was_  on the floor. "I have no idea," he says. "Seldom did I interact with my contemporaries."

I nod. "It wasn't anything they couldn't handle." It's none of his business and he doesn't need to know.

"I resent the fact that my session with you was cut short," he says. He's not sounding aggressive, just irritated. 

"I'm sorry, Mr. Gavin."

He shrugs. "I realise it is all procedural," he says. "And that it certainly wasn't your fault."

And I feel a twitch course through me, a horrible sense that I'd almost accused him of having something to do with it.

"How have  _you_  been, anyway?" I ask.

"I'm appreciating the music, so I must thank you."

"It was Parke's idea," I tell him. "You should have said something when he was here."

I can tell that he doesn't actually believe me. I'm almost amused. Parke doesn't dislike me, but he thinks he's better at reading and operating with people, even though he operates under an almost scripted level of interaction with them. Yet now, for once the idea about what the inmate wants is  _his_  and yet Gavin is happy to give  _me_  the credit for it. "I'll make sure I tell him," I say when Gavin offers nothing.

"So how has life been treating you?"

"Nothing out of the ordinary, really," he says. "I go to the library every morning, usually with Hamm-- I reshelve and assist Miss Grave with things, I sit out the back repairing books and organising them to go out to my literate contemporaries." It's his routine now.

"Miss Grave says good things about your work in the library," I tell him. "I'm pleased that you're doing as well as you are."

"It would not be beneficial to me to sabotage my effort in programs," he says. "I seem to have found an occupation of sorts which suits me-- and I remember the incident with Vongole all too well."

My jaw's clenched when he mentions that name, yet it's another instance of him personalising, caring about something, where the usual sociopath would not. To the prison, it was a failed program-- to Gavin, it was about a  _dog_ \-- a connection he'd made with something. 

"I would prefer not to lose my place in programs-- or at the library," he says easily. "I happen to enjoy it very much."

He tilts his head and smiles. I'm wondering if he's getting better, making a recovery. Settling. Perhaps Parke and I could talk about moving him back into gen pop. 

 

  
It served as a good motivating factor for him, I suppose, and now he's got this and the music... he probably is going to need something else to continue that motivation.

  
I'm almost going to miss him, I realise, when he goes back and assimilates to the rest of the population. I won't be seeing him weekly; maybe monthly in my office upstairs. 

He's... been interesting.

 

"That's very sensible of you," I say to him. "I'm pleased with your progress." I wonder what I can offer as a bargaining chip for continued good behaviour. "If you  _like_... we could possibly extend your hours in the library if you wish and..."

"This is all to move me back to the general population, isn't it?" he asked with a raised eyebrow.

"You are going to have to go back at some point," I remind him gently.

He doesn't look at all pleased.

"Perhaps there are many more things I wish to discuss with you," he tells me. What does he mean  _perhaps_? It's passive-aggression. There are no uncertainties with him.

"Such as...?" We've talked about a lot of things. Everything; Klavier, Justice, Wright...

He chuckles. "Do I no longer appear insane?" He's teasing me, not trying to intimidate me any more.

"Maybe you never were," I say quietly. "Perhaps you just... made a mistake." He doesn't have a personality disorder, I keep telling myself. He's capable of attachment.

And today he seems warm, friendly.

He gives me the kind of look that seems to bore right through me.

"Did you hear about what happened to Klavier?" he asks.

My heart stops then. While neither of us brought up Klavier, I know he's known about him and been holding him there, like a card stuffed up his sleeve. My voice comes out slow and scared.

"What  _about_  Klavier?" I ask.

"That he was  _assaulted_  the last time he set foot in here." There's no mention of him not paying his brother a visit. That's not his concern at the moment; buying time is, and he stares at me intently. "Perhaps I wish to talk about  _that_ , doctor."

Two thoughts occur to me then. The first is that the prison's lines of inter-departmental communication are a mess, because I should have known about this, and the second is--  _How did he react?_

Then there's the horrible afterthought of  _I knew about the visit and I suspected as much_. Why did I suspect it? I can't go telling people about my  _suspicions_. Some horrible combination of concern and pessimism has eaten into me, and I'm thinking about him much more than I should be.

"I... wasn't aware of that," I say evenly. I feel like I'm lying even though I'm not. Not really.

He raises an eyebrow, his face making the point that he doesn't need to verbalise--  _you should have known, shouldn't you?_

I wonder how he found out.

"He telephoned the office and Parke told me as I was returned from the library," he says. He no longer sounds scared and sly and emotive; he sounds positively bored. "I'm not allowed to receive telephone calls whilst I am in solitary," he tells me, "Though Parke felt I had the right to be aware of what happened."

"How do you feel about it?" I ask him. 

He looks almost confused. "I haven't thought about it a great deal," he says. "The initial shock was learning that he'd arrived here to visit Daryan Crescend, who was in the hospital himself after some sort of involvement with one of the organised crime gangs."

He knows that much? Or is he speculating? For someone who barely interacted with the rest of the prison population, he seems to have an idea for working out what is going on around him. I wonder how much of it is reality, and how much of it is his own arrogance filling in the gaps to make his theories work.

"He wasn't  _badly_  injured, but apparently his schedule was... hectic," he says. "It seems that having a  _love life_  appears to be robbing him of his time." He sighs, in a  _kids-these-days_  fashion, and adjusts his glasses. "I never understood the appeal of getting wrapped up in someone else so thoroughly that you start to lose time for yourself." He sounds disapproving. "Klavier has a  _career_  to worry about."

I can tell he's angry about more than Klavier's career. There's a sharpness in his eyes, a twist near his upper lip; little subtleties which he normally manages to control-- yet he can't entirely. 

"It's not just Klavier you're angry with, is it?" I ask him gently. I should be more cautious; I know this-- but he's relaxing with me, I'm not scared of him; he probably  _should_  talk.

He blinks then, and suddenly we're not talking about the assault on his brother ( _Is he all right? How injured is injured anyway? Who was responsible?_ ), any more. 

"I'm not  _angry_ ," he says. And he's right, he doesn't sound angry. He sounds  _flat_. Monotone. Removed.

 _Repression_. I wonder about that pristine childhood where he was ignored by parents busy with their own lives; wasn't he allowed to have less-than-palatable emotions? Did he manage to deny everything into some other dimension where it didn't exist any more, where he channeled things out into more productive pursuits?

I don't know.

"What  _would_  you say you're feeling right now?" I ask tentatively.

He's terrible with the abstract. He can't handle, doesn't fully understand, and is ultimately terrified of emotional responses to things. I don't want to push him; he  _trusts_  me. He's making progress.

I can't screw this up.

"I don't know," he says smoothly. He's had time to think. "A strange sort of sense of melancholy, thinking about things which appear to be so normal for other people, I suppose, and which are never going to be part of my reality again."

It's strange that it takes mentioning Klavier to put him in that frame of mind.

"It doesn't mean that your life is  _over_ ," I point out.

Is this him...  _depressed_?

"If you are suggesting I hope to be pardoned..." He shakes his head. "It would be futile. I'm not merely referring to the deprivation of liberty, doctor, I'm talking about my  _identity_. I won't be able to practise law if I were to get pardoned. I won't be able to live a normal life free of recognition..." His voice softens. "I'm resigned to this. It has to become my normalcy."

For one strange moment, I'm almost hoping he does hope to be pardoned. I can already see myself writing a report for him; no, I don't believe he's a danger to the community any more, yes, I believe he's learned his lesson... I don't know what he could  _do_  on the outside, but it seems a waste keeping him in here.

Though he's here for a reason. He tried murdering a  _child_.

 _Still_ , part of my mind is telling me,  _he didn't want to_. 

I heard about his plan, about how the girl was safe provided she remained inside the studio she lived in. Gavin's statement on the report, with another psychiatric worker whom he seemed to offer short, blunt answers to-- was a simple "But she was happy in there, anyway. She wasn't  _meant_  to be outside."

Like he  _cared_  about her. The strange thing is, in hindsight, maybe he did, but something got lost in translation and the means seemed to justify the ends for him.

Looking at him in his cell with his bed and his music and his few hours duty at the library, I find myself wondering if he's actually happier in here. Maybe he's not  _meant_  to be outside.

  
I'm  _sure_  he's not a sociopath. But if not, then what  _is_  he?

  
"I wasn't suggesting that," I say. Why is my left hand shaking?-- "But I am suggesting that it is possible to adapt to life in prison and to make the most of it and-- perhaps-- enjoy some aspects of it."

There's a strange flash in his eyes then, an almost light which seems to make the lens on his glasses flash, and he smiles wryly. "I'm enjoying myself as best I can, doctor," he says.

 

Why the hell does he have to make everything sound so intense, like there could possibly be some sort of double entendre happening which I'm not aware of?

Control. That's it; he desperately needs control. 

He even needs to control those he likes and trusts-- for a moment there I consider Klavier and Justice and wonder how they reacted to him.

"You have the library," I say with a nod. "Is there anything else you would possibly enjoy doing?" It's frustrating that I can't ask him about career motivations; he's right, it's futile. 

Our time's nearly up, too, and he senses it; his sense of order and routine ha been heightened with the loss of everything else; lack of stimulation makes him focus. 

"I'd like to see my brother," he says. 

I nod. That shouldn't be too hard; I can ask Parke to ring Klavier and since he's already got security clearance--

"Is that all?" I ask. "Honestly?"

He nods, and then offers a rare, lips-parted smile and there's that charismatic flicker in his eyes. "I suppose in my circumstances, conjugal visits are out of the question."

"You aren't married." 

I notice him watching me then, as though something's just occurred to him. It's interesting; when he says nothing and I notice his gaze move to my hands, I figure it out-- he's looking for a wedding band. 

I'm used to most of my patients, clients, service users-- whoever you want to call them-- seeing my office. I'm used to seeing their cells, a few personal items in tow; photographs of wives and children and houses and dreams from another time. He might be serving fifty years for the murder of the wife, and the kids might be living with their grandparents, but they still cling to dreams.

Gavin doesn't, and that's alarming. 

"I've noticed you aren't married, either," he says, lifting an eyebrow. "Certainly you can understand that even an unmarried man has particular needs."

"You're a lawyer," I tell him with a smile, "I'm pretty sure that you understand that there are certain regulations which the prison has every right to impose upon you whilst you are here."

"As a former legal professional, I could argue a strong case for discrimination."

He's becoming more animated, his eyes are lighting up, his smile growing smug and his voice a bit faster. I wonder what he must have been like in court.

"The rules apply to people in longterm relationships," I say, "As you are aware of."

"I never stated that I was  _not_  in a longterm relationship, did I?" He chuckles to himself. 

"There is nothing in your history or your file to suggest that you are in a relationship," I point out.

"Incomplete files from incompetent and uninterested staff are not my problem," he tells me.

 _This_  is seeing him in a human light; this is... almost playful. I find myself laughing, and for some reason there's a shudder rippling through me, guilt and horror at what I've done.

I let him laugh and am grateful when the footsteps come down the corridor. My heart is racing and it's not because I'm scared, it's because I've made things worse in a way and there's a sense of something being out of place that I just can't figure out at the moment.

  
He hears the footsteps and watches as Hamm and Waverley open the door and escort me out. I see him pick up one of his folded newspapers, I hear the hum of the music being switched back on and filling the corridor--  _Things are gonna slide-- slide in all directions_ \-- and I'm listening to Waverley grumbling about his taste in music and Hamm occasionally offer a "Yeah."

It's when I'm out of the corridor and headed up to my office that I realise that in addition to my sense of having made things worse, there  _was_  something alarming that he did-- all the more reason to be concerned about my own tolerance to him and the situation. 

Immediately after mentioning his brother, he requested a conjugal visit.

  
Earlier on-- not so long ago-- if I'd heard something like that, I would have been writing case notes and telling his social workers. Now, all I can do is think nothing of it and smile back at him.

They warned me about him. And somehow...

I believed I was untouchable, that I knew what I was doing and that I wouldn't get lured in. I'm almost embarrassed at my own arrogance.

 

 

I remember writing an assignment on transference when I was studying. Ten years in the job and I've liked enough of them, I've been frustrated with and repulsed and horrified by others, bored by others-- but this is the first time I've hit this point. It's alarming, but the first step, I suppose, in dealing with personal failings is being able to recognise them.

  
I unlock the office-- I've got other case notes to write up and then I need to start scheduling next week's appointments-- Wellington needs followup, I'm meant to be seeing one of the deMoraleses who thinks his medication's not doing what it should be; there's a training session coming up for staff about dual diagnosis clients...

 

In my office, I'm efficient. I'm on my own soil; I can think logically and normally and I can organise my thoughts. I can multitask. 

I switch on my computer and load up the email, jotting down a note on the paper next to me: I want to have a look at Gavin's file. I need to see what  _has_  been said about him there, what has been admitted to-- I need more than a brief scan and some observations sheets.

I can't, for the life of me, figure him out. At some stages, I  _think_  I have it, and I learn more about his behaviour, or he does something different, or he opens up a little more. 

I need to detach myself; I'm learning less and getting more concerned about him on a personal level than I should. I need to see the case file in black and white, the charges against him, the police reports. The video footage of what was apparently a monstrous breakdown in court.

I owe him dignity and humanity as a worker of his; he's worked hard on improving his behaviour, and he seems settled. There really isn't any reason to leave him in solitary for much longer; there isn't much more we can dangle in front of his nose to get him to shift his behaviour.

I open my email and scan through what I've received: departmental things about up-and-coming seminars I never have time to attend, Yes, we are a Green Workplace!, a few procedural changes which don't pertain to me... and then a memo about stress leave and the services to help the workers dealing with personal problems.

How personal is personal, I wonder? Is a professional slip personal? Can I deny it away into not looking personal, can I argue that I'm merely human and...  _No._  I screwed up. I shouldn't screw up like this, I know that.

I find myself wondering if I should utilise the tactfully named Employee Assistance Service.

I've never seen the workplace shrinks; not even when Liz and I divorced and she moved interstate with our daughter.

I discard the email and send one off to Parke, talking about Gavin's request to see Klavier, suggesting that perhaps he should be shifted back into gen pop.

I wonder about recommending a new psych for him, how to word it; I don't want Parke or anyone else to think I've gone soft; I don't want anyone to think that Gavin was aggressive or unmanageable. 

I look up at my calendar and realise I'm due to take some time off anyway.  _I'd_  most likely recommend someone in my shoes to take a couple of weeks off, relax and not think about it for awhile.

I email Parke and deNong and request leave.

I can't help but wonder what Gavin will say about that if it gets approved, and I feel a different sort of slight, inexcusable guilt because if he's got abandonment issues, I might be making them worse.

 

* * *

"I got your email." Parke's on the phone and he sounds busy as ever, a slightly irritated twitch in his voice as though the fact that I show concern and interest towards the clients makes me weak and an irritation.

"Great." I wonder what he'll say about it.

"I've got a question-- can you schedule in one of our  _star inmates_  at some point soon?"

I wonder who he's talking about. He uses the term 'star' a lot; it might be one of the more aggressive and problematic inmates, it might be someone who's been featured in the media, it might be someone like Crescend or Engarde.

"Should be able to... how urgent is it?"

"It's Engarde again. Says he wants to come clean and stop using." There's something  _else_  about it, too, though. Has to be. Engarde's a Borderline, every so often he flares up and has important things he needs to deal with.

And then he flakes out and loses interest or gets abusive towards staff and he has no interest in his mental health for awhile and we have seen this pattern repeat itself frustratingly for years now. The way Parke asks makes me think he can see Engarde as being a potential source of information.

Which is unethical in a way, but he knows we're not priests or lawyers.

"I'll sort out something..." If Engarde can shed some light on the drug problems of late, it will be worth every second of his arrogant, narcissistic monologue.

"Sooner rather than later." Parke seems apprehensive. "He's getting worse, too; he's paranoid and he won't cough to the drugs he's been using and where they've been coming from." He sighs. "I pity Gant, actually, having him as a roommate-- he's a fucking fruitloop." 

Parke, thankfully for everyone, isn't Engarde's case worker. Engarde irritates him; it's possibly the fact that Matt Engarde used to be famous and gained attention for that which is why some of the staff hate him-- or then there's the more typical, Mil-like reason for his dislike. Engarde is a pain in the ass. Engarde is paperwork and procedures and emergency response teams and extra staffing and-- no pun intended-- drama.

I hear a creak in the background, like he's stretched in a chair. "Speaking  _of_ ," he asks, "How's Gavin?"

Gavin's not a fucking fruitloop in Parke's terms but I don't argue the point.

"You saw my email?" I ask.

"Yeah-- now-- look-- if you like, if you really think he's ready to go back-- we could try and tie in reintegrating him onto the unit with your holidays... end up your sessions with him, get him assessed by the psych team, bring him onto the unit, a fortnight later he's able to see you and you're all cool..."

It does sound  _cool_. I wonder what Gavin will think. Things tend to be quicker and easier on paper than in practical application around here.

"Any diagnosis?" 

"Not yet," I say. "I would like to have a proper look at his files and-- oh--" I've remembered-- "He said he'd like to see Klavier."

"He was upset that his little brother got beat up?" he asks mockingly. I don't know why I'm getting the mocking tone-- it did sound like a legitimate and sincere request.

"He was concerned, yes," I say. "I promised I'd pass on his wish to his case worker."

I can imagine Parke's mouth opening wide, like it does when he laughs without shame, like he could cram his fist in there-- when he guffaws down the line. "Good  _luck_ ," he says. "Word has it that he suspects his own brother set up the whole thing."

What the  _hell_? I've frozen without realising it. That's... extreme. 

Have I become that deluded about the man that everyone else an see what he's really like and I can't?

"Is he going to press charges?"

"No."

" _Good_." I guess.

"He claims to have no recognition of the men who attacked him, and Crescend's keeping his mouth shut, too. I'd be more inclined to suspect  _he_  was the one who set it up if _anyone_  did."

"It's a long shot to suspect a man in solitary of managing to engineer something like that," I say. "I know Gavin's... cluey... but... no."

To be fair, I can't imagine Crescend being smart enough to organise something like that, and humble enough to not boast about it. "I didn't realise there was animosity between them."

"Apparently Crescend didn't appreciate the visit. And responded in his usual understated eloquence."

There's nothing more to discuss really, and Parke sighs.  
"I'll get those files that you wanted on Gavin onto you," he says. "And I'll see if we can get him some visitors from  _somewhere_ , hey? If we can't have it settled before your next appointment, you can at least talk to him about where we're at and help him through the idea of moving back to gen pop."

 _Help him through_. That's one way of putting it. I don't envy the team assessing him.

"Sounds great," I assure him-- "I'll get Engarde sorted and call you back."

I click the phone off, and sit down, pushing the chair out in front of me idly. It's a mess but I'm handling it. I've survived worse, I suppose.

I realise after I've put the phone down-- the conjugal visit request-- whether made in jest or not-- has slipped my mind and I didn't even think to mention it.

 

 

 

After the morning I've had with Engarde, I'm looking forward to the walk down solitary.

He's listening to his music again; Beethoven, I'd say at a guess; I'm unfamiliar with the piece and he's off in his own thoughts, lying on the bed comfortably, legs up behind him, reading.

He looks  _too_  comfortable. I've heard workers tell the inmates that this place isn't a hotel; he's behaving as though it is. 

He needs to get out of here. I can't be sentimental and like working with him because he's a relatively soft option, because he's safe and interesting; he'll still be around on the unit, I might see him fortnightly. He can't get accustomed to this; and he already  _has_.

We come to the door and it's opened, Tona's still standing there in surprise, a bit bewildered but not so green any more; Field knocks on the door to get his attention, and he looks up and walks over. There's a spring in his step; he doesn't move like he used to.

Yes, it's time for him to return to the unit.

"Hello," he says pleasantly. He looks at Field with the wand in his hand. "I don't think I've seen you before."

"Campbell Field," he offers by means of introduction. "I'm working up this end of the building today.

"Someone called in sick?" he asks.

Every minute detail is interesting to them. I remember Lily mentioning that they'd notice changes in her hair and makeup and sometimes ask about them-- these very typical men who ordinarily wouldn't pick up on magazine airbrushing and who probably had no idea what eyeliner was used for would notice her  _makeup_. When faces change, you notice it because there's little else to notice.

"Not your concern," Field says as he runs the wand around him and turns to me. "Have fun, doctor."

"We always do," Gavin says dryly as I slip into the cell.

I'm trying to be critical. I'm trying to view myself objectively, look at the way I'm looking at him. Tripping myself up before I stop being objective.

"Is something wrong, doctor?" he asks as I sit down.

 _Is something wrong?_  

I've spent an hour with a hysterical, sobbing Engarde who is back to serious self-harming, who's started opening up a little about the drug use-- he's been in here for several years so he's seen a lot and moved through different crowds. Not having any kind of dirt to blackmail others with, lacing the interest in other people to learn about his fellow inmates and try to cause drama between them and set others up for his own failings, and not having much in the way of physical strength-- and in a setting where money doesn't matter and trade is worked around in other ways, his payment for the narcotics which numb his senses comes in the form of being set up for things by the gangs he owes, or in what can only be described as prostitution. 

He's now terrified his life is at risk from two of the four rival drug gangs and from the people who constitute his own "group." He refuses to name names and he belongs in solitary more than Gavin does.

 _Is something wrong?_

I'm worried my job is finally getting to me in that way which hardens or crumbles people, and I'm not sure which it's doing to me yet. I'm worried that my time here has passed.

And I'm worried, Mr. Gavin, that I'm gong to resent you for making me realise it.

"Not really," I tell him. "Why do you ask that?"

"You appear somewhat...  _stiffer_  in your movements than usual," he says, leaning back on the bed and studying me. "I'm not irritating you, am I? You're not finding my humble abode depressing, are you?" There's a slight smile. "I could change the music if you'd like."

I can see why everyone thinks he's charming, an utter gentleman.

"I have some news for you," I tell him. "There are a few things we needs to talk about."

He looks curious. He leans forward and his eyes glisten with a hunger for information.

"Parke didn't come down and discuss it with me, but I recieved an email this morning; on one hand, we have..."

I'll try to do this kindly. Good, neutral, bad. I'm trying to work out which is which and how they'll be taken for him.

"...Klavier has agreed to come and visit you."

 

He wasn't expecting to hear that. He flinches, slightly, his eyes widen, and there's a subtle change to his expression. He murmurs something under his breath vaguely, and I'm surprised; it's the first time I've seen him respond so automatically; his control may not be what he wishes it was.

"What was that?" I ask.

"I said  _All is forgiven._ " He's looking oddly thoughtful.

"What does that mean, Mr. Gavin?"

I'm curious; what  _does_  he mean? What was so unforgivable that it made Klavier stop visiting him with that last hour they had together? And what made him change him mind? And  _what_  is Gavin thinking about it?

"The last time I saw Klavier, I made a little joke which he didn't find particularly amusing," he says. 

What the hell had he said?

"Though I hardly believe I'm to blame; one's sense of humour becomes steadily blacker-- and  _bleaker_ \-- once they've been on the wrong side of prison walls long enough." He looks and sounds thoughtful. "I think he hasn't adjusted well to the fact that I'm now behind bars." 

"It's a lot for friends and family to get used to, particularly if they're used to loved ones being on the  _right_  side of the law."

He chuckles then, his body twitching as gasps escape him. "Klavier and I were always on opposing sides of the courtroom," he says. There's another brief smile. "I look forward to seeing him again."

I want to ask what the joke was, but I don't. I can't. Perhaps it was something I wouldn't have understood anyway.

"I wonder how he looks," he says thoughtfully. As though he hasn't seen him for a lifetime. Maybe that's what it feels like. Time does funny things when you're in prison.

I leave him to consider that, but before I can continue, there's another musing from him. "I do hope they didn't injure him too badly." His concern sounds blank, unconcerned, as though he's still processing the idea of Klavier coming to see him at all.

  
"The other news I have for you," I start saying, and I'm considering: what do I mention first? It would be egocentric to assume that the worst of the bad news would be my vacation-- "I shall be taking some time off in a couple of weeks." 

He looks at me blankly, and then smiles again. I was expecting shock; more shock than the news about Klavier agreeing to see him, but he looks interested.

"Oh," he says. "Was that your decision, or was it made for you by forces beyond your control?"

It's none of his business why I'm taking time off. I don't want to tell him, but I also don't see why this is a risky subject to discuss. Maybe he's concerned for my welfare and permanency in my role; and I  _should_  be encouraging pro-social behaviour like showing concern for others' wellbeing.

"It was entirely my decision," I tell him. "And I'm looking forward to it."

His smile widens. "You deserve it," he says. "How long have I been here-- weeks?-- and you've been dutifully seeing to my mental health needs, you've allowed me access to a program and to the soul-freeing liberation of music, and I can only begin to imagine the nightmares which you have to sort out when it comes to my fellow inmates." He looks oddly pleased for me.

"Thankyou," I say, saying nothing of his arrogance. "I plan on enjoying myself."

He looks wistful then, and tilts his head slightly, and I'm wondering if he's thinking about where I might be going, exotic vacation spots which he's never seen and never will see. 

"You  _will_  return, won't you?"

"Yes," I say-- "But this coincides with something  _else_ \--"

I can tell he knows what I'm going to say, and he looks relieved when the words leave my mouth-- "The staff-- myself included, Mr. Gavin-- believe that it would be best for you to be moved back to gen pop."

I'm expecting shock. But I don't get it. His face softens, and he laces his fingers, moving them about roughly amongst one another and then he swears quietly under his breath. "I was expecting it," he says. He's had time to mentally prepare for the reality. "Have they a place for me yet?"

 

I know nothing of their reintegration strategy for him. I know that most of the men who assaulted Klavier were from B wing, according to the email from Parke this morning, so I have decent reason to believe that he will not be moved there. Beyond that, I have no idea.

"Not that I'm aware of," I tell him. 

He stretches his fingers.

"I'll be sure to advise you if I hear of any developments," I try to reassure him-- "And as you know, you will receive ongoing psychiatric assistance should you require it..."

"It won't be like this, though, doctor, will it?" There's a strange smirk in his voice, as though he's trying to parody sounding hurt or upset. I feel a pull of something-- guilt?-- humiliation at thinking he actually does care?-- and shake my head. "Probably not," I tell him. "Appointments are organised through the officers, and my office is upstairs-- you will be escorted up there, and, same sort of situation as we have here, you will receive an hour's session."

I feel like I sound entirely too cold. I'm reminding myself that this is a good thing.

"However," I point out, "Will will work on your offending behaviour in those sessions as opposed to--"

He raises an eyebrow. "I do hope I'm not offensive," he says. Like the whole thing's a joke.

It is for him. Sending him in to talk about Why It's Wrong To Poison People isn't really an issue any more. He won't talk about his offenses if he doesn't feel like it, and spending the rest of his life in here seems to render rehabilitation utterly pointless.

I don't really know what I can do, beyond offer whatever comfort I'm offering now, and hopefully allow him space to consider his interaction with other people.

"How do you feel about it?" I ask after what feels like a long period of silence. "I was thinking you would be worried, if anything."

"I am," he says. Not a cowardly confession, a matter-of-fact statement.

"Why?"

He gives me an unimpressed look and pushes his glasses up his nose again. "I don't trust this place," he says. "And I don't feel safe here."

"What do you do when you don't feel safe?" It's the sort of question he'd call patronising but if it can at all offer some sort of insight into  _managing him_ \-- if he'll answer it-- 

"It is rare for me to feel unsafe anywhere," he says. In the sort of way that suggests that feeling unsafe is something children or animals do. "I'm not used to it."

 _Because he's always been able to control things..._

"As part of your reintegration, we might be able to keep you in the library for much of your day," I suggest, thinking on my feet-- "I can ask about it at the very least."

"Thankyou, doctor," he says. "I do appreciate all you've done for me." He gives a small nod, almost sad and still processing. "I doubt I would have realised my skills in library administration and scouting recycled paper and getting to learn about the Dewey decimal system if it weren't for your efforts." He folds his hands into his lap and smiles sweetly at me.

We have ten minutes left. I feel like he's not going to say much, as though he's still trying to sift through and organise everything I've told him; Klavier, my vacation, his return to gen pop.

"Is there anything on your mind you wish to discuss with me?" I ask gently. "You've been given an awful lot to deal with..."

He smiles. "There's nothing you can do right now, doctor," he says calmly. "But thankyou for asking."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrics quoted from _The Future_ by Leonard Cohen. Used, obviously, without permission.


	4. Break

It's my last session with him before everything changes, and I'm feeling two things; relief, and disappointment.

I'm relieved to be getting out of here in a week.  
I'm disappointed that I've done little more than scratch at his surface.  
I'm disappointed that he trusts me, that he will talk to me; I've just--  _we've just_  run out of time.

He doesn't look happy when I arrive at the door. He's flipping through a newspaper again, and he looks solemn and serious.

He's wanded wordlessly and he returns to his bed. Field and Denham step away, not saying anything, and I wander in after a "Hello," which sounds entirely defeatist-- and sit down.

"Hello, doctor," he says in monotone. His eyes barely meet mine. "You look like you could use a holiday."

There's no sneer or sarcasm or betrayal in his voice; it's hollow and miserable. But he's right. Crescend had been moved back to gen pop two days prior, and for some reason believed that Engarde wanted him dead, so the first thing he did was corner him and beat him with a lunch tray.

We had four isolations yesterday; Tigre, White and Engarde, who kept claiming he didn't know why he'd been targeted, and then Crescend who claimed to have evidence that Engarde wanted to "fuck his shit up." Crescend was typically genteel and charming during his interview.

So Gavin's correct in his assumption, but of course he has no idea what he's about to return to. 

I'm not falling for him talking about me, though. This is our last session in this setting; as I was meant to prepare him for his impending execution, now I have to prepared him for his return to normal-- if you can call it that because it rarely  _is_  normal-- prison life.

"We need to talk about reintegration," I tell him. In a no-nonsense, serious manner. "This is your last session with me and..."

He sighs. It's rare for him to sigh and this time when he does, his whole body heaves as though it's all too much to think about."

"Wouldn't you prefer to speak of happier things?" he asks. "Cruise ships and tropical islands and that carefree sense of traveller's wanderlust which you can indulge in for a few weeks and--"

" _No_ , Mr. Gavin."

He freezes, and sits up straight. He's not used to me being blunt with him. Maybe he's not used to  _anyone_  being this blunt with him.

"How are you feeling about returning to the unit?"

He glares at me, and looking me straight in the eye, says-- "As though I'd have been better off ticking that box next to  _Hanging_  and letting my body struggle for a few minutes let alone a manner of... however long it's going to be."

 _So he's malingering now? Playing the suicidal card?_

"I'm not suicidal," he interrupts my thoughts with-- "But surely you must realise that there's retribution certain individuals will be seeking against me, don't you?"

I raise an eyebrow. In his utterly paranoid, narcissistic view of himself, he thinks people care enough to want him dead?

I'm not entertaining his delusions, and I'm not playing his games.

"And who would those people be?" I ask. Trying to keep my voice solid and curious, lacking the friendliness and warmth I may have conveyed towards him earlier. I don't want him to think he's getting special privileges because he's my patient.

He laughs. "Isn't it obvious?" he asks. "Gant and his team of sidekicks. And if Gant wants me dead, Gant's going to kill me."

"Mr. Gavin," I tell him calmly, "Gant is, as it's been stated before,  _nearing eighty_. Gant just wants a quiet life like Ruce--"

"Is Ruce still there?" he asks frantically. It's strange how his body doesn't move despite the change in his voice. Apparently his control extends to being able to control which thing he will keep in check; his verbal reactions or his physical ones.

"We're not talking about Ruce," I state. "Or Gant. We're talking about you and your return to the unit."

"Which will hopefully involve being moved back into my old room and which must certainly involve my safety around Gant and his friends--" He chuckles on the word  _friends_ \-- because he doesn't believe in friendship or because he doesn't believe that the men Gant associates with are friends?

"Why do you think Gant wants to kill you?"

He stretches, still remaining seated, and laces his fingers together again. "Isn't it obvious?" he asks. His voice is laced with a haughty, frantic sort of indignation. In others, it might sound arrogant.

On him, it sounds like the squealing of something dying. He's scared. Terrified.

"That requires explanation that we no longer have time for," he tells me matter-of-factly. "And it would force me to mention things I would prefer not to."

I blink. He normally talks about everything. With flowery, confident speech. Nothing is too depraved to suggest or hint at, there are no secrets.

Until now, and I don't have a clue what he's talking about.

Is he trying to buy more time in solitary? Is he trying to appeal to any sympathy I may be able to offer him? I can't get dragged down into his turgid deception.

I'm thinking of the things I'm not meant to, long lazy fishing trips out in solitude, spending nights in watching cheesy PG movies with Anna, powdery white sand on tropical beaches; all the things I know I won't be seeing over my vacation period but which I want to fantasise about all the same. 

"What would those things be?" I ask. Maybe I'm frustrated with him. Why the hell can't he just explicitly state things? Why make me  _work_  for information like this? 

...Why am I sitting here, feeling the back of my neck swelling, feeling like I want to scream at him, shake him, point out in Waverley-esque terms that he's in  _prison_ , that he isn't seeking help from some cushy overpriced therapist in the hills who deals with the tragic and the glamorous and their problems--

"Did you read the report?" he asks me.

"What report?" Maybe I'm close to showing, through my tone, that I'm pissed off.

 _"Engarde wanted me dead, fuckface, because Gant wants me dead. The Kitakis were fucking set up by someone, you dumb cunt..."_

"Is something the matter, doctor?" He calms as my stress level rises. I feel  _hot_ , the rage and frustration has become physical, it's being pushed, forced out of me in a bodily reaction.

 _"You know the first thing that happened when I came in here, doc? It was late, because the idiots involved with prisoner transport didn't have their act together so I arrived_ late _. And all I wanted was a shower, and Furio Tigre was in there and..." Engarde's sobs. That howl. Then that haunting silence, and he's composed himself, as though he can't allow himself to discuss it any more._

" _Yes_ ," I say testily. "I really  _do_  need that vacation, Mr. Gavin--  _and I need some answers from you_." I'm gritting my teeth. 

"You look interesting when you snarl." He's sounding amused again. I'm sure his arrogance makes him think it's all about him, not about the stressful week I've had, not about deNong and Parke on my back about reports, not about having to hear one horrific event after another and having to deal with the system being under fire because the last month has been more violent than any in the past seven years.

"I'm not snarling," I say. Forcing myself to grow calm. I'm watching his face as I do so, wondering how he does it if he's not actually a sociopath. 

He chuckles. "If you want the simple answer as to why Gant wants me dead, I will tell you in the most succinct fashion possible," he says. "I refused to fall into line for him."

 _That's all_? Or-- what  _is_  this?--  _More_  games?

Control. He doesn't like losing control, that's what this is about. 

"There's more to it than that," I say quietly. "What happened?"

He rolls his eyes and tosses his head. "Are you even aware of how much  _power_  the man wields?" he asks. He sounds curious; annoyed, but curious all the same. "Damon Gant has integrated himself into the order of things here; he came in with connections, Lady Luck smiled upon him when some sort of electrical fault halted his execution-- and he became the stuff of legend. He was a  _god_ , he  _survived death._  With von Karma at his side initially, and White seeming to have everyone's filthiest secrets at his fingertips-- and then with Wellington and Engarde being there to suck some  _more_  confessions out of people, he ran the inmates." 

I'm frozen. It's a ridiculous conspiracy.

 

He smiles softly. "Ruce told me all about it," he says. "And what I wasn't told, I managed to stumble upon, or figure out myself." He chuckles. "It makes me think of--" and he stops right there.

"What does it make you think of, Mr. Gavin?" I ask.

"It makes me think about  _Wright_." He sniffs, and looks irritated. "Wright's plans to destroy me were so ridiculous and well-timed that if a single thing had gone wrong he just would have looked like a fool, wouldn't he?"

"We were talking about your safety issues with Damon Gant," I remind him.

"That conversation has finished," he says abruptly. His voice is hardened, a locked door slammed in my face.

He truly is insane. The way he's skittering from one topic to another, the crazy Gant conspiracy he has concocted, it's all insanity. 

I've been conned by a paranoid con artist.

"Why?" I ask. I have fifteen minutes left and then a vacation from him.

"Because if I say anything more, it will be more than obvious that I said it," he says. "And unless you can guarantee that I will be spending the rest of my days in solitary, I'm not rising the wrath of..." He pauses before admitting anything-- "The  _system_."

No names. Crescend couldn't name anyone because he didn't know who the names belonged to, Engarde couldn't because--  _why_  couldn't Engarde name them?-- and now he won't.

"We can take protective measures out for you against Gant and his friends," I say dryly. If this is his excuse for staying away from the real world, I'm not buying it. 

He chuckles. "If you think you've beaten him, you've already lost," he says. 

We have managed to spend the majority of the session talking about nothing. He's not reassured, he's still going back on the unit, and I've learned nothing more about him.

It doesn't matter any more. He's right: it won't be the same out there; I won't be able to speak to him like this.

He's a haughty, insane con man. That's all.

  
All the time I've been dealing with him, I've felt a sense of guilt at the fact that I might derive some enjoyment out of his sessions.

But some part of me wants to remember him from weeks ago, not as a paranoid, crazy manipulator. As an intelligent, interesting and infinitely complex person.

"All right," I say slowly. "Let's talk about something else, then." I smile weakly. "Has Klavier been to visit you?"

"Not yet," he says. "Apparently his visiting is conditional on a few things which I have not yet agreed to."

I don't even want to start thinking about that. Which is like tempting me  _to_  think about it. Don't think about an elephant-- and what do you think about?

I raise an eyebrow.

"Wright wishes to see me again, too," he says. "Parke told me yesterday morning." There's a dark chuckle from him. "I wonder if Edgeworth tired of him or couldn't deal with his scars and baggage." He looks vaguely amused and curious. Maybe he's right; Edgeworth  _does_  come across as being fairly uptight. 

It's interesting; it's as though he has a compulsion to leak out bits of his life, his stories, while he knows I'm going, that these sessions and our time together is coming to an end. 

Like he's trying to entice me back.

He can't. 

I decide then and there that to assist his return to gen pop, and hopefully to quieten the delusions in his mind, I'll recommend some antipsychotics to keep him calm. I'll recommend he not be placed in the same wing as Gant. All alarmingly typical solutions for a most  _a_ typical client.

Neither of us says anything as the footsteps draw closer down the corridor, and then Tona and Caster appear. 

"All done here?" Caster asks. He's not usually on this wing.

I turn to Gavin, who is staring through me.

"Good bye, Mr. Gavin," I say quietly. "I wish you luck-- it's been--" It's been  _what_ \-- lovely? No. Interesting-- sometimes, but interesting is a word people use in place of pleasant, when it's clearly obvious that it hasn't been pleasant-- "An enlightening experience-- working with you." I offer a weak smile. He's still sitting there, saying notihng.

"Right to go?" Tona asks me.

I'm still looking at Gavin, even after I've stepped out and the door is locked behind me. There is no farewell from him, no music playing suggesting how he's thinking and feeling. He is stony-faced and silent, still sitting on the bed, unmoving. 

We're out of time. 

I turn around and walk with the officers, glancing back to see if he's changed, if he's  _moved_ \-- and it's only once I've reached the end of the corridor and we're headed back towards C Wing that I realise when I've seen something akin to that expression on his face before. Weeks ago, when he was talking about betrayal. 

His narcissistic, crazy mind has decided that I've betrayed him.

I want to feel like it doesn't affect me but I can't. Not quite.

He's right and I'm right: I need that holiday.

 

 

My holiday. My vacation. My fortnight of sanity.

I wanted to see my daughter. Anna's twelve now, and interstate after Liz filed for divorce. We talk on the phone but it's not the same, and unfortunately, my time off hasn't coincided with school break.

I don't blame Liz for saying no. It's just... depressing. 

I have nothing planned in the two weeks I have free to myself barring catching up with an old friend from college. Lauryn Dell and I go back-- we were studybuddies for most of the time we were in college on our paths to becoming psychs. She now runs a private practice, writes self-help books, and does appearances on talk shows. It's funny that our lives took such different paths, yet we still remain in contact. Sometimes only someone else in your line of work understands where your stress comes from.

Lauryn's been a consistent in my life; we've never moved beyond friendship because we didn't need to. She was probably the only person who knew about the details of my divorce, and she stood by me unconditionally. I was her rock when her mother died, and we've got a strong but casual friendship where we don't need to see one another frequently but we still know we're on each other's side.

On the Tuesday afternoon--  _interestingly enough_ , I'm thinking--  _this is is usually my Gavin time_ \-- I arrive at her clinic, lock the car and sit in the waiting room. It's airconditioned and pleasant as opposed to stuffy and humid in the car as it would be if I waited in the parking lot. She'd explained that she had a patient and would be finishing up for the day and at which point, we could head off together, get something to eat, and share war stories.

She's running late when I get there. I can hear a voice behind her office door, and even though her receptionist has already gone home, I can tell whoever she's with is a client rather than a colleague. The doors are thick and mildly soundproof; I can only hear muffles, I can't make out whether the voice is male or female.

I still feel intrusive, and I study the fishtank across from me while I'm waiting. Swordtails-- I think they're called swordtails-- dash in and out of reeds, and a shoal of little red and blue ones dart together protectively when they realise they're being observed. A few speckled catfish shuffle along the gravel lazily, and angelfish move towards me, as though challenging me or asking to be fed.

I'm so taken with the fish-- this is a new addition-- that I miss the drop in conversation and the door opening, but my mouth hangs open when I see who walks out.

 _Klavier Gavin._  

He's like a slightly shorter, tanned version of his brother, with purple-blue bruises covering one side of his face, wearing dark sunglasses instead of the delicate, half-rimmed spectacles Kristoph wears.

He's moving awkwardly, like something's painful, but with a confident swagger as though nothing's wrong. And of  _course_  he notices me. He doesn't know why I'm gaping at him like an idiot, and I shut my mouth, embarrassed.

"No need to stare at me like that, Herr Crazy," he says in a theatrical, over-the-top manner. "I'm just your friendly neighborhood rockstar."

I blink. He tilts his sunglasses down and I can see the bloodshot eye amongst the bruising, and I hear the peppy rattle in his voice. He sniffs, and I get the distinct impression that cocaine use explains the exaggerated behaviour.

Lauryn rushes out after him. "Mr. Gavin," she says, "You left this in my office."

She doesn't notice me sitting there, watching their interaction, but she brings out a photograph. I can't make out what it is, but it looks old in that way that photos age, where they start to yellow and the edges fade. 

" _Danke_ , Fraulein," he says with a grin. She gives him a smile and hands the photograph to him. He accepts it and places it in his pocket, then waves to her in an exaggerated manner and calls out, "Guten tag, Fraulein Dell," and sashays out the door.

And that's when she sees me sitting there. She doesn't say anything at first, but sighs. "Yes, I can now add famous rock star lawyers to my list of clientele," she says, still looking at the door. "And yes, he's a handful."

I still don't say anything because there are too many questions I want to ask and know I shouldn't.

 

I try to disguise my shock with a chuckle, but it doesn't sound right, It sounds hoarse and still shell-shocked. Lauryn either doesn't notice, or is tactful enough not to say anything.

"Here I was thinking the B-grade actors were disasters," she says casually. "To be honest-- remember when we were both interning and we decided that our fellow psychiatrists were all closet basketcases? I  _swear_ , they're  _nothing_  on lawyers."

"I thought the B-grade actors would be bad," I say. They're another decent-sized proportion of her clientele.

"Yeah?" she asks. "Me too. But the  _lawyers_ \-- I swear-- they keep you in business. And since they all seem to know one another, they recommend amongst themselves and their doctors." She sighs. "How're the ones on the _wrong_ side of the law?"

It's funny, because I haven't told her anything about my clients. She hears brief, non-identifying details, but nothing more, and now-- I don't even mean to say anything-- I don't even  _want_  to-- but the need for confession is there and it's  _strong_.

"Guess who's working with the  _other_  Gavin brother?" I ask her. "Trust me, I  _know_  how screwed up lawyers can be."

This is when she suddenly stops, and  _her_  mouth hangs open in shock and horror. "Oh my  _god_ ," she says after an eerie silence. "Just...  _wow_."

I'm wanting to know  _why_  she responded like that, why the hesitation and the horror. But I can't ask, and she can't ask what Kristoph Gavin is like; professionalism gets in the way.

It's one of those moments which-- if someone made a biographical film about America's Darling Celebrity Psych-- subtext would be attributed. Lauryn and I were suspected to be dating when we were in college, but for some reason-- maybe that friendship was more important than a relationship, maybe that we just weren't that attracted to one another-- we never did. And now, fifteen years on, we're still both single, and still good friends, but it's a line neither of us has dared cross.

And the silence isn't there because of that, but to a Hollywood director, it would look like the perfect moment for some sort of intense symbolic moment.

We're not quite looking at one another any more, but it's about the clients, not about  _us_. And we both know that our secrets have to stay ours, but we selfishly want the others.

It's funny how our lives continue to cross paths even when we've turned out so differently; there's intertwining which neither of us would have suspected from a mile away. Celebrities pay her wages. Convicted felons who, for the most part, are as poor as hobos and who  _don't_  usually want to see me-- are mine-- the state and a private corporation pay my rent and car maintenance. And yet-- we're still connected.

"I know," I say. "Funny, isn't it?" I'm deadpan. My voice has dropped to a low murmur.

"I've got a couple of your regular set," I tell her blithely. "Celebrity has-beens..." 

She chuckles."I noticed Daryan Crescend in the paper a few weeks ago-- he's still inside, isn't he?" 

"For another thirty-five years, minimum."

She nods. "Felons and lawyers and celebrities," she says thoughtfully. "Who'd have thought there'd be commonalities, even amongst them?"

I laugh. "Every now and then I wonder why I'm not doing what you're doing," I admit. "A beautiful practice, a nice office, a fish tank--" 

"Because you always wanted to help people," she says. "Because you didn't want the notoriety of being famous, remember?"

She's right, in a way, but hearing it stated like that makes me feel almost pathetic. But that's about my reaction to her words, not hers. Maybe the reason I feel pathetic is because if I truly wanted to help people, I would have made different decisions; I wouldn't be working with clients who, for the most part, do not wish to be helped, or who've fried their brains so much that they're beyond help.

I wonder what Gavin would think of me if he knew that. He'd probably detect a weakness and try to appeal to my empathy.

I'm annoyed that it's my vacation away from him, and he's still on my mind.

Lauryn seems to know when it's time to move on. "Let's do lunch," she says. "You still haven't been to that wacky little Russian place I was telling you about, have you?"

 

"So what made you decide to eat cold beetroot soup anyway?" I ask as we're finishing up. Admittedly, the food at the Borscht Bowl isn't so bad-- it's good quality for the price, and the waitstaff are friendly and the atmosphere is pleasant. The restaurant is chilled, and the decor verges on tacky, but it's got a cozy sort of old-world atmosphere a out it, back from a time when restaurants were restaurants and you went there to eat, not be seen endorsing some celebrity chef's product.

"It was a client, actually-- we were talking about family heritage, and he was telling me that his mother had lived in Borginia, and he said he knew nothing of Borginian culture... and we got to talking about food." She looks like she knows what she's talking about. "My aunt is from somewhere near Borginia and the cold beetroot soup dish seems to be one of those dishes a lot of countries in that region have their own version of. I remember something like this from when I was a kid and we'd visit my aunt-- but  _anyway_ \--" she cuts herself off, returning to her explanation-- "I mentioned the soup, he asked if I'd ever been to Borscht Bowl."

"So how does it compare to your aunt's?" 

"It's pretty good," she says. "I like the atmosphere here, too." She cuts herself off again and looks at me seriously as we both fish for money to pay the bill. Putting a fifty down and shaking away my offer to pay, I see her mouth tighten into a thin line. "Are you  _okay_?" she asks out of nowhere. 

"Sure," I tell her. Casual. Cool. She doesn't need to start analysing me.

"You just seem very,  _very_  tired."

"I guess I've been in the job for too long." There. It's the first time I've admitted it. 

"You want to get  _out_?" she asks.

"Not really-- I don't know. I've just had a lot to deal with lately."

She nods, in that way that she probably does when she's meeting with clients. "I can't even begin to imagine what you're dealing with," she says. "Phobias and intimacy problems and drug abuse are probably only the tip of the iceberg for you."

"You've got Gavin," I remind her with a little smile.

"So do  _you_ ," she says.  _Don't remind me_.

The waitress arrives, thanks us, and takes the bill and the money, and Lauryn and I are standing up, readying ourselves to walk back to the car. I can tell she's still thinking about him as we leave.

  
"So what's he  _like_?" she asks in the car park. The sun's setting and the sky is backlit with orange. The trees and buildings and streetlights become silhouetted against the glow, and a flock of seagulls caw noisily in the distance.

"Who?" I  _know_  who.

"Gavin." She's skating on dangerous territory. "I don't want to know anything which would compromise you professionally, just... what's he  _like_? I've heard so much about him; he's like this character I almost can't quite believe in."

"He's... complex," I say tentatively. "Damaged." I sigh. "He's behaving himself, though." I don't mention the violence. I don't mention his fear.

"Apparently he wishes to see his brother."

I nod. "Apparently his brother agreed to it."

"Under  _set conditions_." I wonder what they were. It would be unprofessional to continue this conversation.

"We shouldn't keep talking about this."

"You're right." There are uncomfortable glances exchanged between the two of us and we look at our cars, parked next to one another, his and hers. I'm wondering why we didn't just take one car from her office now.

"It was good seeing you," she tells me. "Don't become a stranger." There's a warm smile from her and I realise that our time is up. I don't ask what she's got planned for the evening, she doesn't ask about mine. We avoid one another's depressing realities, or we avoid depressing one another with our own.

She gives me a hug; her arms grab me-- one around the neck, another around my no longer college-sized waist. It's been fifteen years. I've noticeably aged. She's just become sleeker and more professional. We're still friends, we'll probably always be friends, telling tales about work without revealing identities well into our twilight years.

"I won't," I assure her. "Promise." 

I get into my car, she gets into hers, and I'm left with the rest of my vacation and... nothing else to do.

 

I remain in virtual solitude for the rest of the week. I wake late and I sleep late. I watch bad late night television. I read trashy crime thrillers starring men I wish I could be more like, men who have interesting careers, great sex and confidence that a con man would kill for. Men who hack into computers, not the minds of the terminally damaged.

I avoid the newspapers because the last thing I need is to be confronted with work unexpectedly. I try to eat healthily, I go for runs in the morning, I have that vague midlife crisis where I consider joining a gym and wanting a flashy sportscar like the others on my block. I drive past Lauryn's office once or twice on my way to the shops whilst running errands, and I think once again about having a nice little practice of my own in the hills.

It's a detox from work. Cleaning my headspace out. 

  
I'm in the supermarket when I'm abruptly reminded of what I couldn't quite leave behind.

 _Atroquinine my love--_ _  
You're the one I'm thinking of--  
I can live with all the lies  
With mismatched lullabies  
And bonds we just can't break  
Though there's far too much at stake  
You're my guilty and divine  
Atroquinine my love..._

Why the hell do supermarkets recycle pop music that left the charts a long time ago in terms of the music scene?

And who'd have ever thought that pop songs had the ability to be so downright creepy? 

I'm thinking, as I grab a box of granola from the shelf-- that the innocence of pop music is akin to the sweetness of fairy tales. The original fairy tales resembled horrific mythology; they were disturbing symbolic stories where faith and religion and commonsense mingled with horrific aftereffects and unhappy endings, designed to scare children into behaving themselves.

The Gavinners'  _Atroqinine, My Love_  now has a darker edge to it, too. I'd never really listened to the Gavinners before-- I'd save articles from the paper and send them to Anna because I knew she was a fan, I remembered the uproar about the  _My Boyfriend is the Prosecution's Witness_  music video which featured enough homoerotic subtext to raise the blood pressure of a few church and "family" groups, and I knew their music was played  _everywhere_ , but I'd never really stopped to listen to the lyrics.

Now I wish I hadn't, because when you think about it, they're  _deeply disturbing_.

Atroquinine-- Gavin's weapon of choice; a powerful toxin capable of killing with only the lick of a stamp. Lies and mismatched lullabies... Gavin.  _Kristoph_  Gavin.

It's not a love song. It's a farewell. It's about an obsession with another, seeing them as poisonous, not being able to let them go whilst knowing they're dangerous and possibly destroying you.

 _Just what the hell has Klavier told Lauryn?_  Why did her face blanch like that when I mentioned him-- what does  _she_  know about Gavin that I don't-- and that I probably  _should_? 

  
I'm angry by the time I leave the shopping complex, and it doesn't improve when I walk past a clearance novelty shop throwing out remnants of pop culture from years ago for the low low price of under five dollars. A Gavinners poster is stuck to the front window, marked at two dollars, the trademark "G" symbol-- which was dangling from Klavier's neck as I saw him leave Lauryn's office-- is what catches my attention, but the two figures imposed over the front of it steal it instantly. 

Klavier Gavin, shirtless and wearing criminally tight latex pants-- but holding a guitar in front of anything which would make the picture indecent-- and Daryan Crescend, kneeling next to him with a base guitar in front of him near his feet, his signature phallic hairstyle pointing off to the side, a devillish rock and roll bad boy look on his face-- and something in his hand.

A closer look reveals that it's a leash... which is attached to the collar around Klavier's neck.

 

My initial reaction is embarrassment--  _my daughter is a fan_?-- and I curse myself for not having at least made myself aware of my own child's interests. I'm filled with a sense of remorse-- Liz was right-- I never  _did_  have sufficient time for my family. Then there's an embarrassed sense of  _My daughter is growing up_  and a desire to perhaps  _not_  know what she's interested in all the time. I wonder if Liz has seen posters like this gracing Anna's walls. I wonder what she thinks about it.

  
Then there's the simple reaction of  _What the HELL?_  I'm starting to see why Crescend is avoided in prison; association with the kinky rockstar who might be gay is an image crisis problem.

So why, then, was he attacked by the Kitakis? The Kitakis run drugs and gambling; the deMoraleses seem to have stepped up for competition in that department since the Rivaleses mysteriously were left to their own devices (running  _other_  types of drugs, Parke suspects, but there appears to be no proof) and kept out of trouble...

It pisses me off that I'm thinking about work on my vacation once more. It pisses me off that work is so connected with  _life_ , with the world around me. 

I have a green tea on my way home, and decide to have a quiet-- and early night in for the evening. 

  
When I get in, moments after having poured myself a drink and not too long after to deciding to finish watching the third season of  _Samurai Dreaming_ , the phone rings.

Anna. I'm looking forward to chatting to her. I just hope she doesn't want to talk about the Gavinners. I've dealt with enough Gavinners today for a lifetime.

  
I'm shocked when it's  _not_  Anna, but a very sombre sounding Parke instead.

"Look-- I'm sorry to ring so late, but... I felt you deserved to know..."

I already know what the call is about: a death in the prison. Parke's been good-- he realises that I know just about everyone, and tends to let me know when something has happened to someone.

You get used to death in the system. Suicides, overdoses, homocides-- permanently disabling injuries-- suicides and overdoses and homocides which didn't turn out as intended. You deal with death, like it's a chemical leeched into the walls of the complex-- everyone's dying gradually, their souls and psyches wasting away, their bodies being destroyed by drugs and assaults--

My blood freezes for some reason, when I suspect why he's calling.

"I've got some bad news for you, doctor... you can come in and get debriefed if you need to..."

I open my mouth and I can't quite shut it. It's either Engarde or Gavin. I blink, waiting for a response from him. Engarde, I'd felt like I was making a breakthrough with, like there was a possibility that in the right space and away from the drugs and the people he was terrified of, he would start calming down.

Gavin-- there's a lead balloon in my stomach. If it's Gavin, he was correct in his assumptions. Gavin wasn't suicidal, he was annoyed and scared, but...

"Who was it?" I ask tentatively. 

Neither of us need to say the word death-- we already understand; the explanation will come flooding out afterwards as we talk and debrief over the phone, remember the good times and discuss attending a funeral. I've been to several over my ten years-- out of respect for the long timers I usually attend, the men from a different era and with different temperaments, who are usually sweet old men who have lived and died sad lives inside prison walls.

Parke sighs. "Ruce went this afternoon," he says. "Just keeled over and had a heart attack." He sighs again, and I wonder if he's ringing for an unofficial debrief as much as he is ringing to inform me.

"I'm sorry," I say. I am, actually. Ruce was one such harmless old man, he'd spent most of his life behind bars and carried himself quietly, and kept out of everyone's way.

"How are the rest of them taking it?"

"Well..." There's some hesitancy in his voice. "Some of the other old timers were down, some seem resigned, like they knew it had to happen..." 

"Gant?" 

"Gant paid his respects and then got back on with it. You know what he's like." 

"Who was Ruce rooming with?"

It had been Gavin. Then it had been no one for awhile. Then I saw the name "White" filled in next to him, then...

"Engarde, as of last week, actually," Parke says. "We had a bit of an incident with him where he had to be moved from Gant's cell so he and White were switched over."

"An incident with Engarde. Colour me unsurprised."

I can practically see Parke's eyes rolling and hear the teeth gnashing. "We were  _meant_  to move your boy out onto the floor today, but given the situation with Ruce, we were otherwise occupied," he says. There's a wry laugh in his comment. "At least we have a place for him now."

"But I thought in the report..." How the hell did a discussion about one man's death turn into discussing Gavin?

"We weren't going to put Gavin back on A Wing?"

"Nowhere else for him," Parke says. "B Wing's full of the petty crims his brother put away, so he's a target over there, C and D wings are  _full_ , and there's not enough evidence to put him in the psych wing."

"I suppose I'll come back to a world of complaints," I grumble. Wonderful.

"You always get complained to," Parke says with too much enthusiasm in his voice. "It's your job."

"So Engarde and Gavin will be sharing a cell."

"Maybe they'll drive one another crazy and we can rehome them in the psych unit... permanently."

I wish to explain just how difficult that is, and that it's hard enough to diagnose Gavin anyway and that Engarde's BPD diagnosis makes it harder when he could be malingering. 

But I don't. I don't want to talk about it any more.

"When and where is the funeral?" I ask, ending the conversation abruptly. I know we talk shop when we're not meant to, that the subject of what we do manages to leak into perfectly ordinary conversations. Company Christmas parties take a turn for the interesting; running into someone on the street gets us talking about work. 

But it's my vacation and he called for a reason.

"I'd like to pay my respects to Ruce."

 

 

I'm back at work on Monday morning.

Curiosity compels me to walk through the unit before I make my way up to my office; everything's come alive in the way a prison does-- a stilted, mechanical sort of alive which is routinised. Most of the inmates aren't in their cells; they're off at work programs or completing their tasks. I see White mopping the general space floor and he smiles at me, flashing still-perfect teeth with a breezy kind of air. I smile back awkwardly and walk towards the stairs.

Ruce's old cell bears no traces of him. It's spotlessly tidy, both bunks are made up, and a small pile of books is on the desk. It's just as impersonal as any other new cell is; there's no indication that Gavin is in there now, and he'd be at the library anyway; still, I crane my neck out of curiosity. I can't help it.

Then I hear a voice behind me. "He seems to be settling in reasonably well."

It's one of the Field brothers; they sound so similar. 

I turn around.

"Morning, doctor." It's Knox, the older one. Usually works in C wing, but said he'd prefer to work with these guys, apparently.

"Hi." We're both looking at the cell. 

"Shame about old Ruce," he says. "He never gave anyone any grief. Til now, I guess." Despite the pun, he sounds perfectly deadpan. 

"I know." 

"Yeah, you get back from your vacation to this." We're walking now, I'm heading up the stairs and he's following me.

"Anything you need to report?" I can tell he's hanging around because he wants to tell me something.

"I don't know," he says. "I've just... got an inkling about something."

I raise an eyebrow. When staff have  _inklings_  about things, it usually means that they're  _right_ , even if they aren't aware of what they're right about.

I suspect he wants to talk about Gavin. Somewhere in the weeks of seeing him in solitary, I've been associated with the man, like I'm his how-to guide. Because no one else has gotten him. 

"Does that something involve Gavin?" I ask.

"Not really." I can see his fingers moving uncertainly; I'm willing to bet that he was one of those kids who was forever told off for fidgeting when he was in school. "It's more... _Engarde_."

"What about Engarde?"

"I don't think making them roomies was a great idea," he says. 

"Aren't they getting along?"

"It's not that... It's just..." He stops, as though he's said too much and doesn't want to criticise the administration which brought them together. 

I'm at my door now, and I unlock it, twisting the handle and looking inside. 

My office. Spartan and impersonal in many ways, but I've missed it. 

"Have a look at the emails, is all," Field says as though that's some kind of an answer.

"I shall." I give him a smile and he walks off, and I'm alone for the moment, to savour my space before the day starts.

I wonder what's happened in two weeks.

* * *

There are reports. Incidents have occurred; Gavin didn't take too well to being moved and then the news that Klavier wasn't visiting him over the weekend-- rather than spending time in isolation, he calmed himself down-- apparently the threat of losing his library program was enough to put him back into line.

Engarde complained of having his space invaded, and has booked an appointment with me. DeLite's being moved to protective custody. Drugs were found on D wing, and apparently the previously well-behaved Rivales group may be involved.

Life continues on, I suppose.

Ruce's funeral is to be held on the Thursday, I'm informed via email. I put in a submission to deNong that I'm going to be attending, and then start going through the rest of my messages. All is quiet; I'm surprised and pleased that nothing too huge has flared up while I've been away. 

The cynic in my is just giving it time.

 

 

Engarde twitches. 

He twitches and he fiddles with his hair, he picks at scabs on his arms, his eyes rarely meet mine unless he's trying to make a Big and Serious Point, namely that he is entirely unsuited to prison life and that he belongs in protective custody.

The worst about that is that he's probably correct, but he should have been there from the moment he was brought in. Instead, it appears that he was moved into A wing, he had a disastrous few nights and then he was "protected" by a benevolent group of prisoners who apparently wanted to give a great entertainer some dignity.

His naivete was beyond ridiculous: it was days afterwards when he'd been dragged into position by his new "friends," and had been set about to be utilised by them.

His naivete extended, irritatingly, to not naming specific names, not talking about what he's done and why. Everything's white noise for Engarde, he deals with it, he grows harder and less pretty with every day, his star has truly faded. 

He's surviving, not living. Like Gavin and many of the other high profiles, he's a displaced child of the change in capital punishment legislation; he expected death and he didn't get it.

And he's facing me now, hair falling over the scarring on his face, looking pathetic and broken.

"Hey, doc." There's no longer a chirp in his voice; I've watched him for eight years, gradually turning into  _this_. "You went on holidays and shit, didn't you?"

"Yes, I was away for a fortnight."

"How  _was_  that?" There's undeniable bitterness in his voice; he hates hearing about others having what he doesn't, yet he has to know everything.

"It was good to have some time off," I tell him noncommittally. "How have the past few weeks been?"

His face tightens; he's angry.

"Fuckin'  _shit_ ," he snarls. "New psych—that substitute guy-- was a fucken idiot. Wanted me to go on meds-- some shit about antipsychotic crap or something-- and to do some sort of bullshit touchy feely group therapy bullshit."

I haven't looked at his notes. 

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"I dunno," he sneers. "He wanted me on meds and to do some stupid  _group thing_." 

"Did something happen?" 

"Nothing out of the ordinary." He's crossed his arms and is looking down at the floor. I'm getting a bad feeling about this: if Gavin wants to go back to solitary, all he'd need do is...

"What do you mean by that, Mr. Engarde?"

He turns towards me aggressively, practically spitting the words at me. "I got raped again, what do you  _think_?" There's a wildness in the eye I can see, like he's daring me to suggest that he needs some sort of debrief or therapeutic response.

"Do you wish to talk about it?" I ask quietly. He's shaking slightly, twitching with an enraged electricity. My hand is already under my desk, touching the duress alarm, unbuttoning the clasp. He's turned violent before during sessions, and when he snaps, it's instant and dangerous. He's also a known biter, and he's refused to be tested for various blood-transmitted diseases. 

"Yeah," he sneers. "I want to name everyone involved and watch every single one of them come after me once they know who ratted them out." He's calmed by having the chance to be sarcastic.

"I don't mean discussing the individuals involved if you wish not to-- unless your immediate safety is at risk--" and I don't like the way I say that, either-- am I  _wanting_  him to implicate Gavin somehow?-- "I was referring to--"

"Fuck that, doc-- I'm not talking." He slumps backwards, defensive, arms crossed and breathing quickly. "Everything here's fucked up and you workers all back one another up anyway."

"Are you suggesting that it was a staff member...?"

" _No_." I know what he's implying. "But I know they have their favourites and you people turn a blind eye when it suits like you do about everything else." 

He's angry again. I brush the duress alarm, and look at the things in lose proximity to him. He could throw a plastic cup, a box of tissues, or the small table they're both sitting on from where he is.

I can't argue with him if he doesn't wish to name names. But I  _can_  at least ask one question which might give me the power to remove him from a threat.

"Did this happen since the room changes?" I ask. I don't want to, and I can feel  _my_ self twitching, like I'm about to hear another loathsome truth about Gavin.

"Yes," he says. The fact that he's being honest turns my stomach to lead.

 _Shit_. I suck my breath in nervously, waiting for the thing that I really don't wish to hear being stated. Heads are going to roll, especially since I'd assured Parke that Gavin was all right to retu--

"It wasn't Gavin, though."

I blink, and he picks up on it instantly and smiles. "You think that Gavin fag would try something on me?" he asks, sneering again.

I don't know what to think.

  
"Gavin's scared of me because he knows I'm connected. All he does is sit and read and work at the library," he says. 

"So ...you feel safe with Gavin?"

He looks bewildered, considering. Like the concept of the word "safe" is something he hasn't thought about in a long time and might have forgotten, as though he's trying to recall it like the words from a one-hit wonder he remembered from his childhood.

"I guess," he says slowly. "He's like Ruce only he's smart and he's a fag."

Whatever that's supposed to mean. Ruce was reasonably warm, and seemed generally accepting of people. Gavin isn't like that at all. Maybe Engarde means that he tends to behave and keep to himself like Ruce did.

"He's talked to you?" I ask.

"Not much," he says. "He seems to hate the same people I do and like me he got fucked over by the same shitty lawyer who sent me here," he says. He tilts his head thoughtfully. "Gavin and I are cool."

The smile on his face is strangely genuine; no smirk and no malice. "I guess he's been through shit and wouldn't go handing it out either," he babbles on. "I mean, everyone knew what happened to him when he got here..."

 _Except me_ , it seems. Gavin himself never told me, and his initial consultation was brief and polite and had probably happened before "hat happened to him when he got here". There were no official reports, but it's hardly surprising when people are hesitant to report their own victimisation, especially people who have as many power and control issues as Gavin does.

Still-- I'm curious, and I shouldn't be.

"Please, Mr. Engarde," I say, "We're not here to discuss other inmates."

"Oh, yeah," he says with automatic realisation. "Privacy and shit."

He seems happy enough to change the subject.

Our session ends on a strange note; he hasn't mentioned using drugs once, he didn't seem to be under the influence, and he appears to have avoided his usual whining about the system.

I don't attribute it to Gavin, I write it off to Matt Engarde having had a good week and feeling safe in a new environment. And I don't have my hopes up-- we've all seen Engarde-- he's been here nearly as long as I have-- go through his phases of intensely loving someone or something only to have flipped around and decided it's hellish the next time it's mentioned. He used to be enthusiastic about sharing a cell with Gant. He used to be enthusiastic about working in the mail room-- but when we asked if he'd like to change roles because he was always complaining, he dug his heels in and threatened to kill himself if he got moved to another task-- black and white thinking and vast changes in logic and appreciation are part of the package you get with Matt Engarde.

I can't get his words out of my head though, even after he's left. Gavin. He felt unsafe on the unit and he had an honest reason to feel unsafe.

I wonder what else he's managed to not tell me.

 

 

When it's time for Gavin's follow-up session, I'm actually surprised at how pleased I am to see him. 

He strides in confidently; up until this point I've only seen him take a few steps from a cell door to his cot bed and back; here, I'm watching him walk across the room and sit down.

Despite the standard issue prison uniform, there's dignity in the way he moves. He looks pleased with himself.

Engarde's words echo in the back of my head--  _Everyone knew what happened to him when he got here_ \-- and I wonder if it was all hearsay or if he'd just very, very good at masking the fact that he was a victim.

He sits down on the chair closest to my desk, and pulls it up towards the tabletop before saying anything. Tona, who dropped him off, is hanging around in the corridor outside my office; Gavin has a legal right to his privacy and is deemed safe enough to be in here alone with me. 

He picks up the sculpture on my desk; a small plaster model of a cat that Anna made for me when she was in kindergarten. Studying it, he smiles. "How quaint," he says. "So simplistic and obviously with sentimental value." He then looks at me. "I didn't know you had children."

He sounds pleased with himself. No angry, as I'd suspected he might have; I'd thought he'd have felt a sense of betrayal at me leaving him; apparently not.

I ignore his attempt at pressing for details of my personal life, and glance at the figure in his hand. He places it gently on the desktop and looks at me expectantly.

"How was your break, doctor?" he asks serenely.

"It was... refreshing," I tell him. "How was your release from solitary?" I smile at him. We're back to where we were before, I've realised, where we have familiarity, an almost push-and-pull intimacy. Maybe this is the sort of interaction he requires from me.

"Interesting," he says. "The last person I thought I'd be rooming with is Engarde."

He speaks thoughtfully, as though amused.

"How are you finding that?"

He's said nothing of the assessment an his removal and his loss of the music.

"Engarde keeps to himself," he says casually. "I suspect my inability to recognise him as the former celebrity he apparently was has rendered me useless in his eyes." He doesn't sound at all bothered. "I just look at him and see wasted potential."

I look at him and see a damaged personality, a man who shouldn't really be amongst these people. 

"Why do you say that?" I raise an eyebrow, and notice the way he's looking around my office, taking everything in. 

"Do you realise--" he asks-- "That I've never seen inside your office before?" There's a wistfulness to the way he says it, like he hungers for his own. "For weeks you visited me in my abode, you saw every possession I had to my name-- and yet--" He's looking at my leather pen holder-- "I've never seen yours."

"It's nothing exciting," I say. "As you're probably aware, I'm not able to decorate that much given the security policies here."

"There are revealing personal touches," he says with a smile. "Little details which say something about who you are--"

"Mr. Gavin," I offer quietly. "We're here to discuss  _your_  situation."

He smiles again, and settles back into his chair, his eyes still on the leather pen holder. "I must say, I do appreciate the craftmanship in that piece," he says.

It's from years ago, when leather working was still an activity for the inmates. It was a gift from an inmate who had no family to offer it to.

I don't tell him this.

"How are you settling back into the unit?" I ask. "Has there been any trouble?"

"Men will behave like animals in an environment like this," he says. "There will  _always_  be some level of discord amongst the population incarcerated here."

"You're being rather vague today." I eye him carefully.  _Is there something you want to talk about, Mr. Gavin?_

"Forgive me," he says. "I suppose I'm just not used to this level of stimulation. It's taking me some time to adjust." Another smile.

"How is your work at the library? Are you still enjoying yourself?"

"I had an amusing experience." He chuckles softly, his left hand covering his mouth. The scar is not visible; it's a casual, easy laugh, not a nervous one.

"Oh?"

"Hamm saw me writing," he says. "He told me that his father was left-handed."

"I didn't know you were." Which makes perfect sense, of course; I've never seen him with a pen in his hand.

"I'm not," he says. "I'm ambidextrous." He brushes his fringe out of his eyes with a casual flick of his fingers. "But to Hamm, seeing me write there, I was left handed for that moment. He chuckles again. "Apparently his poor father used to be admonished in school for being spawn of the devil," he says, eyes widening. "Fancy that-- a demonic association for merely preferencing the use of one hand over the other."

As if thinking about it, he looks down at his right hand. "It amuses me since my own  _demonic_  hand feature happens to be on the other hand-- the  _right_." 

It's the first time he's mentioned the scar.

"Have you always had that particular feature?" I ask casually.

He chuckles again. "You seem afraid to mention it," he says. "Your superego is the parent in the elevator shushing their child-- the id-- which wants to talk about how that woman is so fat or that man smells funny." He relaxes back in the chair. "You  _can_  ask about my scar if you  _wish_ , doctor."

Why is the hair on the back of my neck feeling this...  _taut_?

"Have you always had the scar?" I ask him. Maybe my voice is tentative; I'm not used to being put on the spot like that, directed into conversation.

He laughs. "The truth is, I don't remember obtaining it," he says. "But given the nature of it-- the fact that it  _is_  a scar rather than a birthmark, I suppose I  _did_  receive it somewhere." He twists his hand, stretching it out and studying it. "It's virtually impossible to see unless you're specifically looking for it," he says. He leans in, closer to my desk, a sweet smile on his lips. "Maybe you'll be able to make it appear, doctor," he says in a low almost whisper.

I should not find this as disturbing as I do. It's vaguely sexual, even though the man himself isn't. Trying to reconcile these two sides of the one person is difficult. 

"Have many people seen it?" I ask vaguely. There. Ask him about his experiences of other people experiencing him. 

"A few, though they usually haven't been aware of it."

"Apollo Justice, if memory serves me correctly, was aware of it," I say.

He chuckles. "Justice wasn't made aware of it until the trial when he saw it himself," he says. "Though there  _were_  other occasions when he  _could_  have seen it; he was just otherwise distracted."

Office stress, I can only assume. The idea of Gavin being a stressed attorney, frantically panicking over deadlines and organising cases, is again difficult to meld into the view of the collected, calm, and perfectly stable man presenting his psyche to me.

"In what manner?" I ask. I'm wondering if asking him about his stress will cause him to feel stressed which might make the legendary devil show his face.

He casts a quick, scandalised look at me and then looks away. "The relationship between young Justice and myself was a complex one," he says, "On a number of levels." He smiles, broadly, as though he's savouring sweet, melt-in-your-mouth chocolate in his cheeks, and his eyelids flutter slightly with a satisfying memory for a split second.

I cannot see the scar appearing on his hand. Once again, he's too perfectly in control.

"How do I state this politely?" he asks. "Perhaps it would be more gentlemanly to state that both positioning and Justice's state of mind at the moment when the devil decided to smile at him never allowed him the chance to catch a glimpse of my feature."

He chuckles again.

I need to clarify something.

"Mr. Gavin," I state calmly. "Are you telling me that you were having a sexual relationship with Justice?" 

He chuckles again, looking thoroughly pleased with himself, and his index finger pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "It was so much more than that," he says. "I prefer to think of it in terms of a more...  _holistic_  relationship. I was his mentor, and I strove to teach him as many things as I could about a  _variety_  of subjects." 

He blinks. "It has not been uncommon, throughout the ages, for a mentor to instruct their pupil in ways beyond the academic." He sounds so entirely matter-of-fact about it. The fact that Justice wasn't underage means that technically, everything was above the law. It just strikes me as a somewhat creepy abuse of power rather than anything particularly troubling-- even though he probably doesn't see it as such.

I wonder how Justice saw it.

"Did Justice--  _enjoy_  his  _education_?" I ask wryly.

"He was a most responsive and enthusiastic student," he says. There's an expression of fondness on his face, a smile in his eyes. "Ever enthusiastic." There's a reminiscing smile on his face, as though he's remembering far more innocent times spent with him. "I'm sure you're reading something tawdry and almost puerile into the situation as most would," he says bluntly, "But Justice and I did not have that sort of relationship. I was  _not_  taking advantage of him whatsoever."

There's a strange sort of hollow silence when his words hang there, as though he's figured out the logical conclusion to the way things turned out, and he's expecting me to ask about them.

"I mourned his loss," he says quietly. He turns his head slightly, eyes downcast. "I'd built this beautiful creature into a confident young man who could stand on his own two feet, I'd nurtured and encouraged him, I'd offered him every single thing I felt would benefit him," he says. "I allowed him to sharpen his mind-- and his  _teeth_ \-- figuratively-- and I was  _proud_  of my work with him."

There's an uncomfortable twitch in his face, tic-like. "I felt that I was offering him Wright," he said. "Wright stated that he wanted to see my work in action, to see the sweet little assistant propped up and operating in court-- I  _knew_ \--" His body is still, but his hands, which are clenching into tight fists-- "that case was un-winnable, that Wright would be found guilty-- I believed Justice had yet to be taught about humility, about loss, about knowing his place in the world--" the knuckles are white, but I still can't see the scarring-- "and yet..." 

The last two words are wistful, full of regret. "That was to be another of my lessons to him," he says. "He was to learn that sometimes you don't win them all. Just like every attorney has to realise at some stage."

He blinks. "He had a brash, youthful confidence about him, but he needed to see the way the world worked outside my office. And I'd planned the entire thing for him; I would have gently comforted him after the event, and we would have discussed how he could have improved his performance for the next time..."

He trails off. The hands are still fists, and I don't know what to say.

"It's obvious that you cared a great deal for him."

Is it, though? Did he actually care, or was it the power, the  _shaping_  him, the  _fucking_  him which was what he enjoyed so much?

He nods, his head still lowered. "I did," he says quietly. "I wanted to show him the world. I wanted him to have something I never had. And I wanted-- needed-- him to become successful." He smiles, almost sadly. "I suppose I got ahead of myself there."

He chuckles again, but it's a bitter, tinny laugh.

"Have you had any contact with Justice since your incarceration?"

"No," he says. "Although I have been advised that he wishes to see me." He looks thoughtful. "I can't understand why-- unless he wishes to brag about Klavier."

A hardened look comes into his face. "I'd utilised Wright for Klavier's benefit, too," he says wistfully. "I wanted to see my little brother succeed-- it being his first trial and all... I'd set it all up beautifully..."

The bitterness is overwhelming.

"Klavier hasn't visited yet?"

"No," he says. "It appears that his initial promise and attempt at controlling things was only a set up..." He looks at the desktop again, eyeing Anna's cat and the blotchy fluorescent paint on it.

"Perhaps he's fearful after what happened last time he visited," I suggest. "He arrived to visit Daryan and..." 

He looks interested then. "Has there been no investigation into that?" he asks. "Has anyone suspected that Daryan might have set the whole thing up as an elaborate revenge plan?"

"How so?" 

"Klavier was his best friend, his bandmate-- most likely his lover for some of the time," he says dismissively-- "and he was the prosecutor in the case which lead to Daryan's downfall. Surely the man must harbour some resentment towards him."

"To be fair, though," I suggest, "How Daryan could have engineered that and organised men who had a problem with Klavier to be there at that time-- from a hospital bed-- is close to impossible."

"I would like to see justice for my little brother," he says in a low, serious voice. "He  _deserves_  justice." He doesn't sound at all affectionate or  _warm_ , but determined and angry. 

"And no," he corrects himself with-- "I am not referring to the  _man_  with that statement."

"You feel that he's too good for your former assistant?" It's one of our jokes, I tell myself, but I can't help but be curious.

"It's not really a matter of that," he says. "I just happen to  _know_  Justice-- that with ambition such as his and a determination to get to the bottom of things-- regardless of the consequences-- Klavier could be... in an unsuitable position." He looks thoughtful. "Charming as Justice can be," he adds with a wry smile. 

I remember his comments about taking Justice in, about looking after him, buying him his suit-- and can't help but feel a sense of bewilderment. "It's not... envy, is it?" I ask gently. "Sibling rivalry turned into something else?"

"One could argue that," he says. "And that might appear to be a reasonable argument-- but there really is  _more_  to it." And he smiles again, wistful, savouring memories. 

"Do you care to discuss it?" I ask.

"Not really." He sounds so dismissive that it's almost haunting, and I wait for a reason why.

"There are things you don't know about Klavier which I could spend far too much time going into," he says, and it's then when he glances at the small, no-name-brand clock on my desk. "And I see that our time is nearly up, doctor." 

Well spotted. I'm tempted to keep the session running so that he isn't running the show, but he's correct; I have other things to do and other inmates to see.

"I like your office," he says vaguely. "And it's interesting to see you sitting on something more comfortable than a plastic chair in solitary."

I smile. "I appreciate that you seem concerned about my comfort," I say dryly.

He stands up. "Until next time?" he asks. 

He's not scheduled in for a next time. He's not meant to  _get_  a next time unless something...  _happens_. And I'm fairly sure he's aware of this.

I stay in my seat, frozen.

"Mr. Gavin," I say warily, "Unless you have a need to see me... now that you're integrated back onto the unit..."

He pushes his glasses up again, and turns slowly. "You're leaving me?" he asks in a low voice.

"I'm afraid counselling isn't covered unless there is a pressing need for my servi--"

A cold glimmer comes into his eyes, cutting through them in a manner that's terrifying for a moment. "Please book me another appointment," he urges.

"What would you wish to talk about then?"

He looks uncomfortable as he gives his one-word answer, like it doesn't suit him to be so common.

" _Sex_."


	5. Intimacy

It's towards the end of the evening when the duress alarm sounds. 

My response is automatic; I'm fixing up some paperwork in regards to proposed changes on the unit-- I've been held back after Stickler and Wellington had a run-in about something and both were isolated.

When the alarm sounds, I spring up from my seat; the corridor and office lighting doesn't suggest that it's eleven o'clock-- prisons have a funny way of rendering time useless; lights-out happens within the confines of the cells, and there is always light in the communal areas due to occupational health and safety policies for the staff on patrol.

It's eternal twilight.

  
It only occurs to me as I run downstairs, that unless it's an attempted escape—and I heard no alert called on the radio suggesting as much-- the problem is confined to one of the cells. 

I'm correct in my assumption, and when I arrive at A-wing, I can hear the yells and thumps of pissed off inmates wanting the alarm silenced. A small group of staff are standing by what used to be Ruce’s room.

I'm surprised but not: evidently the honeymoon period has ended for Gavin and Engarde; my suspicions are that Gavin wants to return to solitary and that Engarde has managed to piss him off.

Maybe Gavin wants something to talk about in therapy. I find myself thinking of his last statement and shudder. This is the  _last_  thing Engarde needs.

"What's going on?" I ask.

"Will someone  _turn that fucking thing OFF?_ " Behind me, I can hear another inmate screaming from another room.

"Yeah," Towne says vaguely, looking at Tona. "Can you go grab that?" Tona dashes towards the communications panel to deal with the alarm and I turn to Lily and Waverley. "What's happening in here?" I ask.

Waverley looks disgusted. "What do you  _think_?" he asks. His face is screwed up as though he's just seen a child torturing a puppy.

There are no children here, and there are no puppies here. I want to hear it in his words.

"Dale here heard something," he says gruffly, "And I come down the stairs and am facing sights a lady should not be seeing." His voice is loaded with sarcasm. "Someone needs to get these two  _moved_ ," he says.

Lily doesn't look impressed with being called a  _lady_. She folds her arms, then steps towards the door and knocks on it. "You hear that?" she snaps. I see Towne grabbing for a torch and shining it through the slot of a window in the door. I peer in.

Both men are on the bottom bunk; Engarde is lying on his stomach and there is something dark and ominous on his shoulder.

Gavin is sitting near his feet, adjusting his pyjamas. All appears calm.

Lily glares at Waverley. "They don't  _seem_  particularly bothered."

Gavin catches a glimpse of my face and smiles slyly, raising a hand to offer a small wave.

"Fucking disgusting," Waverley snarls.

"Boys will be boys," Towne says with a shrug. "I just hope for Gavin's sake, he went for it boyscout style."

Everyone looks up at him and away from the window. 

"With a knife?" Waverley asks. 

"Always be prepared. Christ knows what Engarde's got in his system." We're speaking in hushed tones.

"Why was the duress alarm pushed?" I ask. On one hand: I now have extra insight into two of my clients. On another, it feels like an invasion of privacy.

Lily looks guilty. "I heard a sound which seemed to suggest there was a fight occurring in the cell," she says, "And given that we're dealing with two volatile personalities in there--"

"Why the  _fuck_  they were put together is beyond me," Towne says--

"You did the right thing," I assure Lily. Towne pokes the flashlight into the room again. "They've gone back to bed."

"There's blood on the floor," Lily notes. It's as if she's backing up her belief that there was violence of some description occurring there.

Everyone looks in. She's correct. There's a decent-sized amount of it next to the bed, dark, thick, and looking hopefully worse than it is because of the lighting.

"Is this an assault we need to document?" Towne asks, sounding confused. "I mean..."

"It's fucking sick, it is." Waverley's glaring at us. "I know they make us do all that training saying there's nothing wrong with--"

"Shut  _up_." It's Lily who's taken him on, and she glares at him. "Can you go grab a cleanup kit and start a bloodspill report?"

Waverley stalks off towards the communications panel.

Lily knocks on the door, and unlocks it.

"Mr. Gavin?" she asks.

"Yes?" He sounds sleepy and amused.

"We need to have a talk to you about--"

"Fuck  _OFF_! I'm trying to sleep here!" Engarde springs out of the bottom bunk and rushes towards the door. I can catch a smell of the room; it's usual prison cell smell mingled with blood and semen. 

Interestingly, Engarde's clutching his shoulder. "There's a fair amount of blood on the floor," Towne starts to say, and Engarde rushes towards him as Lily shuts the door a fraction more. I stand against it, holding it shut with my weight. The last thing we need is a pissed off Engarde getting out.

" _So_?" he sneers in a challenging sort of voice.

"So we need to get it cleaned up because as you know, blood poses a risk to the facility and..."

"Fine-- give me the cleanup kit." He sounds thoroughly annoyed, but defeated, like he's prepared to clean it up if we'll leave him alone.

From somewhere in the darkness, I hear Gavin snicker.

"Um, Mr. Engarde...?" Lily's looking at him. "Your shoulder's bleeding." 

As if it's been only just pointed out to him, his hand appears over the spreading bloodstain and he grips it tightly, wincing, his teeth flashing in pain for a moment, two little half-crescents almost making a circle underneath the grey of the prison issue pyjama top. It doesn’t take a forensic scientist to realise that he’s been bitten.

"I'll see the nurse tomorrow, okay?" he grumbles. 

Waverley appears with the cleanup kit and we stand by the door and wait as the blood is removed and bagged, and Engarde passes out the bag to us. "Can I go to  _sleep_  now?" he snaps.

"Sure," Lily says, accepting the bag with a gloved hand, looking repulsed-- "Any more noise and you can expect an early night tomorrow."

The door is shut and locked, and the four of us walk away. Waverley's been stuck writing the report, and I'm now slightly wiser, a lot more curious, and definitely wondering what the next sessions with Engarde and Gavin are going to reveal.

"We have a problem on our hands," Towne says, looking at the screen in front of him. "They should have been separated."

"We don't have the numbers to do that right now, and we all know what Engarde's like when it comes to stunts for attention..." Lily shrugs. "He wasn't  _complaining_  about it, which is better than what he usually does. I've heard him complain more when he's slashed up by himself."

"He didn't bite his own shoulder," Towne says. "And that's just--"

"Fucking  _sick_ ," Waverley spits out. He's made himself a coffee, and we're sitting in the duty office. They're having the kind of conversation a psych worker should not be privy to; it's as though they've forgotten I'm here.

"I'm not arguing with you there," Towne says. "I'll talk to Parke tomorrow morning and we'll get the room searched... we don't know if they've got shanks in there or not."

"It's too dangerous and we don't have the numbers to find out right now," Lily says. "And Dan would have been pissed if we'd annoyed him about that."

Daniel deNong. The great overseer of the prison, and, unfortunately for everyone, the on-call manager. Staffroom gossip has it that deNong is the on-call manager for the overnight shifts because nothing usually happens during them. Parke usually gets stuck with signing off on the daytime calamities.

"So what do we do now?" Waverley asks. "That's an assault."

"Technically there was no complaint filed," Towne says, scrolling over the report on-screen. "And without a complaint, it's not an assault."

"The noise Engarde  _made_  would suggest otherwise," Lily says, "But he was...  _weird_."

"He  _is_  weird," Waverley mutters. "And sticking him in there with Gavin's a  _bad_  idea."

"Gavin's the one I feel sorry for," Towne says. "He doesn't know what a screwball Engarde is yet."

"I think he has  _some_  idea." Waverley slurps his coffee loudly and there's a brief silence amongst us, and they all turn to look at me, as though just realising that I'm in the room.

"What do you say, doc?" he asks. I can see little drips of coffee clinging to his moustache.

"I do believe the rooms could have been better allocated," I say tactfully. 

"Do you think that needs to go down on paper?" Lily looks at me. "We might make a stronger case with psychiatric backup here."

"There's not really anywhere  _else_  we can put either of them, though," Towne says. He rubs his forehead and shuts down the window he's got open. "We can't do anything without a complaint," he says.

"But he was  _bitten_ ," Waverley protests.

"But he didn't express any complaint."

"That's because he's scared of that animal."

"We'll send him off to psych tomorrow morning," Towne says. "He can complain all he wants there and  _then_  we can file a report."

Lily sighs. "I think there's some greater force at work here," she says. "We all know who Engarde is affiliated with... suppose he's trying to get Gavin in trouble..."

"Gant's not a bad guy, though," Waverley says. "I mean,  _relatively speaking_. He keeps the drug bullshit out of the unit and no one steps out of line around him." I think about Gavin's comment about how Gant doesn't like him and find myself stuck on it, wondering why.

"I don't trust him," Lily says. "He wants to get in good with the staff too much."

Towne nods but doesn't add anything.

"I wouldn't say that," Waverley says. He sounds shocked. "He's just been here awhile-- we  _know_  him, that's all."

Interesting. I've heard stories about corruption and can't help but...  _no_. I have no proof. And I'm tired, and I want to go home, and I'm in at eight tomorrow--

"Do you guys need me around here for anything?" I as, somewhat abruptly. "Because if not... well-- I've got an early start tomorrow, and probably one hell of a day to look forward to."

I get appreciative smiles. "Yeah," Waverley says. "See you bright and early tomorrow."

I take that as my leave. And I get home, spending hours lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep.

 

 

There's a smirk on Engarde's face as he sits down, and the remnants of a giggle in his voice. He looks smug and pleased with himself, like he's slept with a supermodel and it was every bit as good as the fantasy.

"Hi, doc." He blinks at me. 

"Hello, Mr. Engarde." 

"Please," he says. "It's  _Matt_." He goes through this every now and then, preferring a title, preferring his first name. Today he's  _Matt_ , casual and boyish. There's a glimmer in his eyes which I remember from his days as a celebrity who attended charity events for children with leukemia and auctions to raise money against bullying.

"How are you this morning?" I ask him. 

"Pretty damned good," he says, stretching in his chair and tugging down on the neckline of his shirt. "I went off to the health clinic, nurse patched me up real good, and... that nurse is  _hot_ , you know? I think she wants me." He grins. "I guess she doesn't get many pretty young things in here to attend to-- I mean, there's me and Welly and Sticky and that Kitaki kid, but Welly ain't looking so hot nowadays, Sticky's a perve and Kitaki keeps up with all that fo' schizzle bullshit, doesn't he?" There's a flash of perfect white teeth from him. "Guess I'm the best she's got to choose from." 

"I'm glad you're feeling better this morning," I say evenly. "Though you realise why we're here, don't you?" 

He ignores the question.

"Dude, I was feeling pretty fucking good last night, too." There's another smug grin. "Gavin fucks like a  _machine_."

This was more information than I'd cared for. 

"Matt-- we need to talk about this because--"

"Yeah, I'm talking," he says lazily. "Hold your horses, pops. I don't think I've  _ever_  had sex that good when I've been  _buzzed_  before. Seriously, dude... the  _librarian_. It's always the quiet ones, isn't it?" 

I blink at him. "So you don't have any problems with what happened last night?" I ask him. "Because technically..."

He laughs. "Technically,  _what_ , doc? It's all good." 

I lean in. I can feel my brow furrowing, my eyes tightening. "If you're trying to protect Gavin for what he did to you," I say, but I already know it's a dead end. "If this was like any of the previous times..."

He laughs. "Noooo... I don't  _think_  so," he says. "It's like-- sometimes it just feels good to do that stuff, you know."

"You needed medical treatment."

"Yeah, the tetanus shot was a bitch," he says casually, "But it was kind of really worth it, you know?"

"So you're telling me that what happened last night was... consensual?"

"Yeah, dude." 

I sigh. "We can't keep getting you patched up in the clinic," I tell him. "And there are risks associated with..."

"Yeah, yeah, I know," he brushes me off with. "I had this big lecture from that hot nurse about all that stuff and blood bourne diseases and shit." He shrugs. "Kris's clean anyway."

"That's not really the main issue here..."

"I know," he says. "But, doc-- it's  _cool._  I'm feeling pretty good, you know...?" He smiles broadly, running his fingers through his fringe. "Can I go back to the mail room and stuff now?"

Amongst the elation, he looks surprised, like he's gotten into trouble for something and isn't quite sure what. 

  
I radio up to have him escorted out and back to his work duties, and then lean back in my chair and sigh. I don't know what to do about this-- we've had prisoners involved with one another before here-- the health clinic offers free condoms and information about STDs with the sort of mindset that it happens anyway and the best they can offer is harm minimisation; everyone's an adult, and if the behaviour is happening in a non-offensive location and everyone's consenting, there isn't a great deal that can be done about it.

But...  _still_. I can make a recommendation that Gavin and Engarde be moved to different rooms. It probably will be ignored by the higher-ups-- it's not like either of them are asking for it or threatening to kill one another. I've been here long enough to see that suspected attackers will get left in rooms with their victims if the places aren't available to remedy it.

But it satisfies the sense of ill ease I have when I  _do_  write out the draft. I can't quite explain it, it's that sixth sense the workers develop about the environment and the inmates: there is something deeply problematic about this situation, which I can't yet put my finger on.

 

I haven't put away the notes I've taken by the time Gavin steps into the office. 

It's sudden; I know the prison administration sorted out his appointment-- after last night I knew I'd be seeing him, but hearing Matt's cool, confident, " _Hey_ , dude," outside my door and then seeing Gavin being escorted in by Hamm was surreal.

He doesn't look different this morning. There's no coy suggestive smirk, no broad grin, no conspiracy smile at the world. He's Kristoph Gavin; haughty, dignified, quiet-- and I suspect that he's going to be a closed door when it comes to talking about last night's events.

Even though at the close of yesterday's session, he suggested that he wanted to talk about sex with me. I make a mental note of that and plan to advise him of it if he decides he wants to discuss something else.

"Good morning, doctor." He raises an eyebrow, as if to challenge me to talk about why he's been called in. "Did you sleep well last night?"

 _Asshole._  It's like he  _knows_. 

"As you know, Mr. Gavin-- we're here to talk about  _you_." I lean forward, keeping my eyes on his. I'm too tired and I'm not in the mood for his bullshit today, and technically-- I know,  _technically_ \-- he's assaulted another inmate. The frustrating thing is that I don't know what my bargaining chip is any more, what I can motivate him with. Does he want to go back to solitary or  _not_? Either way, he shouldn't be rooming with Engarde. 

The thought of him repeating his actions in someone else's cell is vaguely bothering me, as is the notion of him being attacked by someone else. 

"I realise that, doctor," he says calmly. "Well, I was asked to leave the library this morning, which was most unfortunate given that I was helping Miss Grave and--"

"We're here to talk about last night," I tell him in no uncertain terms. 

"Didn't you already discuss that with my cellmate?" His glasses have fallen down his nose and he peers over them. Pale blue eyes glisten at me. "I'm curious as to his description of events."

"You know we can't talk about that."

"So what do you want to discuss then?" It's almost childlike, the way he asks, like he's not quite sure what needs to be discussed with me. I realise it for what it is, and give him a look which is, I hope, serious and uncompromising.

"The situation which myself and four other workers witnessed in some part late last night." 

"I'm sure there were many of those."

I grit my teeth. "I'm not playing games with you, Gavin." My hand meets the desk. Not loudly, not aggressively, just a little more...  _forcefully_  that it usually would. He blinks and shifts back slightly.

"You're tense," he says. "Are you uncomfortable with discussing-- well, let's get to the meat of it, doctor--  _sex_."

"Not at all." My eyes are on his, steely and focussed. "I just wish you'd answer the question."

He sighs. "Very well then," he says. "Last night I engaged in sexual activity with my cellmate." He blinks then, quickly suffixing his statement. "And yes, it was completely consensual."

"Do you know why the duress alarm was pressed?"

"No, I don't, actually-- I didn't understand how anyone's safety was threatened."

"Perhaps the blood on the floor and Mr. Engarde requiring medical attention gave someone that idea." 

He chuckles, and his eyes move across my desk, resting on the plastic frame holding up a postcard. We're not allowed glass in here for obvious reasons, but the postcard, a beautiful scenic shot from Tahiti, is as close to personal office decoration as I can get.

I'm expecting him to comment on the picture, or the frame, but he doesn't.

"It was my understanding that the alarm was pressed when Engarde--" Cutting himself off, he chuckles again. "I'm not allowed to discuss other clients' personal circumstances here, am I?"

A perverse sense of amusement makes me wonder what things were like when he was involved with Wright. If Wright argued like him-- and I could easily expect that, given the fact that they were both lawyers at some stage-- they could have skirted around subjects and reinterpreted things and used legal definitions and protocol to their liking whilst having a conversation.

I think briefly about Lauryn and her mentioning that she seemed to deal with a lot of lawyers at her practice. I'm surprised at her resilience, that she hasn't become an older-looking-than-she-is alcoholic by now. Because one's sometimes too many of them.

"The fact that Engarde  _screamed_  because of your actions makes this no longer  _his_  issue," I state. "We can-- and  _will_  discuss it."

"Very well then," he says simply. "To put it in common terms, Engarde was in the throes of orgasm." He straightens himself on the chair, the only sign of any discomfort. His hands are folded in his lap and I can't see if the scar is showing. "I didn't expect he'd be as noisy as he was, and I didn't mean to bother the night staff." 

"I realise that wasn't your intention." I believe him; Gavin isn't an exhibitionist, it wouldn't make sense for him to draw attention to himself. I assume he'd find it undignified. Then something else occurs to me.

"What happened, Mr. Gavin-- how did  _you_  feel about it?"

"In what respect?" he asks. There's a smirk on his lips, as though he's deciding whether or not to discuss the situation in blow-by-blow detail. 

"I remember you stating some time ago that you were a single man with needs."

He smiles. "Yes," he says. "It was an unexpected situation. I'd have thought someone with the experiences Engarde has had in prison wouldn't be so... enthusiastic."

I can feel that threatened sickness stirring in the back of my throat. "Did it bother you that he enjoyed himself?"

"Not at all," he says. "Had he not enjoyed things, I'd be facing some kind of punishment, wouldn't I? And aren't human beings-- including fallen lawyers in maximum security prisons-- hedonists at heart?" He pushes his glasses up his nose and tosses his head. "We avoid punishment and pain and seek out pleasure."

I ignore what looks like an opening to a debate about criminological theory. "You  _bit_  Mr. Engarde," I say. “Hard enough to draw blood.” 

"I suppose some people don't fit the model," he says with a shrug. "And that Mr. Engarde is one of them." He looks confused. "I cannot fathom thinking that way, personally, but I would swear on a  _Bible_  that the man enjoyed himself."

"You're an atheist."

"Figure of speech, then."

I look at him carefully-- is this what testimony is to him-- all a clever  _figure of speech_? Open to interpretation?

"I would swear on my  _life_  then, that any injuries sustained by Mr. Engarde were at his request."

"You were lamenting the fact that you weren't going to die at the hands of the state not too long ago."

He chuckles. "So I was." 

The look on his face changes, to something hard and serious. Maybe he's irritated with me and my pressing him for something I can believe is earnest. Maybe he's irritated. Maybe it isn't Engarde whom I should be worried about, but  _him_ \-- Lily's notion of Matt trying to get Gavin in trouble is a distinct possibility. He doesn't like being vulnerable. He still hasn't talked about what happened just after he came in, he skirts around discussing sex as anything more than abstract-- 

"But things have changed for me now," he says slowly. "I have every interest in staying alive for as long as possible."

"And what changed things for you, Mr. Gavin?"

"Quite simply, I have a life to live and things to do. Someone once told me that as long as humans have something to live for, then they maintain a will to live-- a desire to not die."

"And what would those things be?" 

He smirks. I know whatever he tells me isn't going to be a straight answer,  _he_  knows that too. There's something very personal about asking someone what they're willing to stay alive for. It's a raw question, deeply personal. It offers the threat of having that thing taken away and one's life being rendered worthless.

Gavin understands this as well as I do, unfortunately.

"I'm enjoying the simple life," he says. "It's certainly not the decorated affair it used to be, but quite honestly, doctor, I have a desire to improve the world-- still."

The arrogance seems to drip from him. It's that same thing which allows him to remain blind to the fact that he nearly murdered a young girl, killed two other people in cold blood, and destroyed the life of an attorney, who, for all purposes, appeared to be a decent person.

"And how do you want to achieve that?" 

"I'd like to reconnect with those who I've hurt," he says. "Being in prison has given me time to think about things. I'd like to see justice afforded to them." His eyes narrow. "I'm not at all referring to the  _injury_  Engarde sustained last night, as you are probably well aware, doctor."

I nod, ignoring that part of the statement.

"How do you propose to do that?" 

"I don't know yet," he says. "But I'd like to shape a better world for us all." There's an innocent, gingerbread man smile, and he rests one hand on the desktop. "I believe I am trying to sort things out between Klavier and myself, and Justice-- and then if I can manage it, Wright-- will be next on the list."

I nod. "That's very... ambitious." 

"I'd like to see what I could do about making life around prison much safer and happier for us all, too," he continues. "Many of the inmate population are as much victims as they are offenders."

There's a strange silence between us then. It's odd hearing him sound so earnest, so concerned about others. He's always come across as someone who enjoyed other people in their capacity to amuse him.

And I don't think for a moment that sleeping with Matt has made him see the light and discover a heart-felt desire to assist humanity reach its highest level.

"Would you be referring to yourself with that statement?" I ask quietly. Engarde's words are floating around in the back of my head. "Has suffering injustice yourself made you strive for it for others?"

He crosses his arms, suddenly cold and uncooperative. "I was a defense attorney," he says. "I have  _always_  been concerned about justice."

  
He's pushed me off topic again. He's sanctified himself, the victim, the wholesome hero trying to make things right.

I wonder how much of that is truth, how much of it is smoke and mirrors... but then again: perhaps some form of justice has always been of concern to him-- he chose to become a lawyer, not a doctor or scientist, and his cool, detached nature and intelligence seem suited to such career paths. I could imagine him working in my field-- except for the fact that... there's something amiss with him. He would possibly be a good psychiatrist, but given what are now looking like shadows of sadistic tendencies...

"Are you all right, doctor?" he asks innocently. "You appeared a bit... distant there."

I try to smile in the same sort of manner as he usually does. Calm, content, in control. "I had a late night last night," is all I offer. "I'm sorry if I seem distracted."

The look on his face changes a little; it softens. "I must apologise, then, if the source of your insomnia was somehow resulting from Mr. Engarde's and my lovemaking," he says.

 _Lovemaking_. It's strange how that description is the most disturbing thing I've heard from him before.

Once again, I'm wondering what else he's not telling me.

"Lovemaking," I repeat slowly. "That's an interesting description." 

He makes a noise which sounds almost like a snort, a scoff, really-- snorting is too undignified for him-- and adjusts his glasses. "Wouldn't you say that  _fucking_  sounds too vulgar?" he asks. "Or that there's the implied sense that one party isn't as interested in it as the other, possibly even that one of the parties is being corrupted-- or  _violated_?" He pauses. "And  _copulation_  seems so  _old-fashioned_. And almost clinical. And I've never been especially fond of childish schoolyard euphemisms-- hiding the sausage, doing the horizontal tango, or as Burgess described it famously-- the old in-out." He looks thoughtful and then smiles. 

Something has just occurred to me.

"You're reducing it all to words," I say softly. "As though you can't quite talk about it."

"Perhaps I'm more concerned about offending you."

"Mr. Gavin-- that shouldn't be your concern."

He's silent. 

"Have you often felt like that," I ask him-- "That you can't offend anyone? That it's more palatable to reduce everything to abstract description?"

I'm expecting him to divert the question or to seize up with rage. But he doesn't.

"Possibly," he says. "I've never considered it like that. Manners were important when I was growing up, and I suppose the values instilled in me as a child have served me well and thus remained with me." 

This is interesting; there are places I could go with this. I could ask him about self-censorship, about if vulgar and raw emotions had to be hidden behind a polite and calm facade, about the losses which could be incurred for not doing so. 

I choose the obvious pathway. "How do you feel, about that, then, being here?" 

There's no need to clarify; he knows exactly what I'm talking about: this is an environment which would cause anyone from an educated, non-swearing background to blink in shock-- at  _least_  initially, and then a week later, they'd be desensitised to the way  _fuck_  and  _cunt_  make their way into casual conversation. 

"It took me by surprise, honestly," he says. "Even most of my criminal clients were very controlled and none of them had the sort of vocabularies I've witnessed in here." His nose wrinkles slightly. "Even the  _staff_  swear."

"I suppose it comes with the environment." I shrug.

"It hasn't appeared to have affected me," he says.

And he's right; it hasn't. But then again, for the most part, he's avoided the other inmates; he spoke with Ruce who still had the old-fashioned gentlemanly mannerisms about him for the most part (but a dead girlfriend whom he was sentenced to life for), he's spoken with a few staff members, and he's spoken to--

"What about Engarde?" I ask. "Is communication between the two of you difficult?" Combining Engarde's numerous mental health issues, his exposure to traumatic and violent circumstances, his drug use and withdrawal and the fact that imprisonment has definitely shaped him for the worse, it's hard to imagine the two of them being able to remain in the same room, let alone in the same conversation.

"Surprisingly not," he says calmly. "I suppose Engarde and I have enough shared experiences in our past to be able to respect and empathise with one another, and when he's comfortable, he can be quite the conversationalist." There's a shrug from him. "He certainly can be scattered and narcissistic and imprisonment has shaped his vocabulary and possibly heightened his paranoia-- which I feel given his circumstances, is perfectly understandable-- but on the whole, no-- there aren't any issues." He glances at the desktop and his lips twitch, as though he's just worked something out. 

"I suppose he's a mimic," he says. "Place him amongst types such as Furio Tigre and Carlo DeMorales and his behaviour will shape to theirs-- the swearing and the drug use and the violence. Place him around other people-- the Wellingtons and the Sticklers and you'll see _other_ things blossom in him. It seems natural for an actor to be better at adapting to his social environment than it would for you or I, wouldn't it, doctor?" 

He blinks. He doesn't know about Engarde's diagnosis, I don't think, but his reasoning is fair.

There's a new concern I have now, or perhaps he's clarified one for me which I wasn't quite able to put into words:  _What does placing him with Kristoph Gavin bring out in him?_

His eyes move up to meet mine. "May I leave now?" he asks. "I have work that I was part of the way through back in the library, and I would prefer not to disappoint Miss Grave."

I never realised how industrious he was, how seriously he'd take his library duties. Or how eager he'd be to leave one of my sessions.

"Not in the mood for talking?" I ask with a slight smile. 

"I understand that I'm not here for a standard session, and I do not believe there is much more to discuss." And then his eyes move down to the report, first-draft printed, sitting on my desktop.

I'm frozen. I'm waiting for some sort of reaction from him, some sort of comment, but he doesn't say anything for awhile, he merely folds his hands in his lap and looks at me as though waiting for me to radio Hamm and get him escorted out.

We exchange a look. It's not going to get dropped; he knows I've seen him see the report and I know he's seen me realise this.

"If last night's events have caused staff to feel concerned about safety and security," he says quietly, "I shall make sure that no one is disturbed in a similar manner in future." He looks cooperative and calm. "I'm sure Mr. Engarde and I will be able to come to a solution which doesn't make the staff feel uncomfortable and which--"

I raise an eyebrow. "Mr. Gavin," I state. "You're not  _really_  meant to be  _doing that_  here."

"I wonder, then," he says airily, "Why the health clinic seem to offer prophylactics and lubricant as though they're candy." He looks at me blankly. 

"Preventative measures and aims for harm minimisation are hardly encouraging certain behaviours."

"But they are acknowledging that said behaviour is occurring." He sniffs, and flicks his fringe out of his face. "Ergo, no one should have any problem with said behaviour occurring in my cell."

I'm worried that when I argue he'll accuse me of discrimination, but he beats me to it. "I was sentenced to death," he says coolly, "And when that changed, my sentence was changed to life imprisonment-- the deprivation of liberty." A dramatic pause. "I was not, however, sentenced to spend the rest of my life free from human touch and intimacy. That," he says, "Would be  _cruel and unusual_ , not to mention psychologically barbaric."

"Consequences of imprisonment are not factored in to things like that," I tell him. "As you would understand." 

Another thought occurs to me: why is he fighting so hard against this? In all the time I've dealt with him, he's never been compelled to question or complain about directives from authority, and he's never been overly concerned about anyone else here. 

This is where I believe that what happened between he and Engarde was entirely consensual; if he just wanted human touch and  _sex_ , if he really just had tendencies and hormones, surely he would be happy in a cell with any other reasonably submissive and damaged-- or new to the system-- inmate.

Why is Engarde so compelling for him?

"This may be the case," he says, "but should last night's activity negatively impact upon what is otherwise a completely benign-- and possibly positive-- rooming arrangement, I will be  _most_  disappointed, doctor."

There's a flash in his eyes; his glasses almost  _steam_. Yet the rest of him looks perfectly calm and poised. 

"I'm not open to bargaining or threats," I say coldly, leaving no room for argument.

"That may very well be the case,  _doctor_ , but I am aware that both Engarde and myself have been victimised by others in this institution when we have been placed in rooms with other inmates."

I raise an eyebrow. "There is nothing on your record to suggest that," I tell him.

"I know you're aware of what's on Engarde's records," he says.

"That isn't of your concern."

"As my fellow man, Engarde's wellbeing  _is_  of concern to me." His jaw is clenched and he looks angry. Politely, professionally, uncompromisingly _pissed_. "I can promise you no more repeats of security breaches--" he scoffs, showing how much he believes the issue really was a security breach-- "But I must implore you, doctor-- are you willing to sacrifice Engarde's wellbeing where he is because you happen to have a problem with me?"

I can imagine him all too easily in court. There's a calmness to his words, yet there's passion; I've stirred up his love for the verbal argument, and he's shining and in his element. It's almost a shame to cut him off.

"I don't have any problems with you, Mr. Gavin," I tell him evenly. It’s too quick, and a little smirk appears on his face; I’ve revealed myself to him—I quite like him. Or, rather, I find hin compelling. And he knows this. And… no… I really don’t have a problem with him: he’s polite, he engages in the sessions, he doesn’t scream and swear at me, he’s interesting… though something about his fondness for Engarde bothers me. "Though when you were talking about making the prison a safer and better place-- don't you believe that Engarde-- and yourself-- are going to require more than just a rooming situation you find suitable?"

He blinks, as though he already knows what I'm going to ask for.

"What was that?" he asks airily. His eyes have moved across the desk and back to the Tahitian postcard. "I don't think I know what you are suggesting."

"We can make this place safer if we know who the offenders are," I tell him bluntly, "And to do that, we need  _names_. And statements."

"Trauma makes people forget details," he says. "It's a widely-known fact amongst those in your profession." His voice is smooth and cool, a brass padlock not even suggesting opening.

"I know you remember."

"You have no proof. And even if I did, perhaps it wouldn't be in my interests to name names."

"So you're covering up for someone?" I ask him.

"Not at all. People don't always remain quiet for one reason-- self-preservation-- whether psychological or practical-- is often a motivation for silence."

"Are you ashamed of what happened to you?" I ask.

"We were talking about what happened last night," he tells me. "About practicalities, not past history." He's getting angry, but remaining in control. He stands and looks at the door. "Can I  _please_  return to the library?" he asks. "I have work to finish there."

I give in and radio Hamm, because I want to think about this and because I'm wondering if I've pushed him too far, and because I don't like the way  _he's_  pushing me. And he's right; we've diverged from the subject, and unfortunately, if everything was as it was recalled to me, there's no compelling reason to split up Engarde and Gavin. We’ve kept openly feuding inmates in the same cell before; at least these two are getting along with one another. Sort of.

"I'll see you next week," he says as Hamm arrives at the door with a nod and a smile. 

  
I'm caught in the mystery and the irritation of him, but once he has left, my hand closes around the report and scrunches it into oblivion. He might have manipulated me somewhat, but if he and Engarde are telling the truth, he's right; they’re probably safer, and better off, in the same room.

 

 

I'm leaving for the day when Lily approaches me in the car park; tough, wiry little Lily, the woman who's had to get used to a lot and continually survive and shut down in order to remain here.

She seems to go with the flow, not making any waves herself; she carries on-- the atrocities she deals with are all in a day's work, and she needs the work.

"Can I have a talk to you?" she asks. She looks apprehensive and worried, almost guilty. This is not the woman I'm used to seeing on the floor, who'll discuss everything with a brash, unruffled manner.

"Sure."

The look on her face changes, like she's still nervous about saying anything to me.

"What's going on?"

"I don't know..." There's a vagueness to her tone, she's not quite sure what she's saying. "I just get the feeling that... something's going to happen."

"Like?"

I'll admit it; I'm in a rush. I'm longing for home, for sanctuary, for a place where I don't have to be dealing with Wesley Stickler trying to convince me that his perversions are about scientific inquiry and White's paranoid delusions that there are messages being sent to him direct via his library books. 

"I don't know," she says thoughtfully. "But I know you work with Gavin and..." She scratches her nose. "Waverley's got a big problem with the guy, I know that, and just the way he and Engarde have become best pals... something's weird." She stops there. "I have...  _reservations_."

All of a sudden, I'm regretting screwing up the proposal I wrote. "About Engarde?" I ask. "Or... Gavin...?" I pause, my voice dropping. "Or  _Waverley_?"

"I don't know," she says. "It's that weird sense that something big's going to happen, like a few of us were talking about before the riot."

The riot. It gets referred to as an historical event; three years ago two of the warring drug factions decided they wanted to destroy one another, and Atmey and his band of merry men decided to get opportunistic. For thirty hours, the prison had been reduced to bedlam. Most of the notables in A wing kept out of it with a few uninteresting exceptions; Atmey spent some time in isolation and since calmed down-- his band dispersed and either fell victim to the then-relevent sentences they'd received on death row, or moved into other factions. 

"What's Waverley got to do with it?" I look at her wryly.

"I... maybe I shouldn't say this..." Her voice drops to a husky whisper. "I just... I don't know. I don't have any proof or anything, but I think he's got a conflict of interests thing happening."

Interesting. It's not the first time I've heard that. 

"In what respect?" I ask.

"I feel like he's trying to be too friendly towards certain inmates," she admits. "I mean, I know Gant and him seem to get on well, but..." She stops herself. "I shouldn't say anything, but it just feels weird. And I just wonder after the rift between Gant's group and Engarde, if... I don't know."

"Unfortunately, I can't do much with that," I tell her. "I'm... sorry." There is a corruption hotline staff can call if they suspect their colleagues of inappropriate behaviour; how often it's used remains a mystery to me. I know that Lily knows about it, too-- I've sat in staff meetings with her when it's been brought up.

"I just thought... you should know," she says. There's a wind ripping through the parking lot, ruffling her clothes, blowing her dirty blonde hair about, causing her to tremble. At least, I think it's the wind.

"I just don't want to see anyone get hurt," she says finally. "I tried talking to Parke, but..." And then there's a silence from her. 

"I wish I could offer more than an ear," I say. Actually, I don't. Bitterness seizes me; I wish she wasn't talking to  _me_  about it. 

"That's all right," she says. "I just have this feeling, you know?" 

I sigh, and offer her a weak smile. "I know... you get that after long enough here."

"Work-related curse," she says. "Precognition when it comes to  _shit_." She chuckles absently, and looks out to her car longingly.

"I shouldn't keep you," she says apologetically. "I just... felt I should say something."

"Well... thanks." For  _what_? A vague headsup that the prison system is a  _mess_?

We walk to our cars, with no need for goodbyes. 

The wind howls behind us ominously.


	6. Plans

 

"News for you, buddy." 

Parke gives me a wave as I'm about to walk into my office. 

"Do I want to hear it this early in the morning?" I grin; that casual, I'm-expecting-the-worst kind of smile which has become second nature when I hear there's  _new_. Expect the worst around here and you get nicely surprised once in a blue moon.

"Gavin's agreed to the visit," he tells me.

"Gav--"  _Oh._  He's talking about  _Klavier_  Gavin. I wonder what's made him change his mind.

"Yeah. The brother.  _Ein Rockstar_." He grins dramatically. "I swear, he's game, that one; I wouldn't be coming back here if I were him, not after last time..." He stops there. "There's a set of conditions attached, though-- I've emailled you about it, and..."

My key is in my door as I look up at him properly. "What's this got to do with me?" I ask suspiciously. There's a catch which I've already realised; somehow it involves me or else I wouldn't be finding out formally. I'd hear it through the grapevine or from Gavin himself. And after the visit, not like this.

"He wants a mediation with his brother," he says. "Amongst other things, he's requested a witness to remain with him at all times, he's also stated that he wants to be in a high-risk room, and that he wishes for psychiatric professionals to be present at all times."

I can feel my eyebrows raising. "What's this got to do with me?" I ask. "And who's he to dictate how we run visits here?"

"We've received a note of recommendation from his psychiatrist-- and under our rehabilitation policy, we have to respect the safety and rights of the family if they're identified as at risk." His psychiatrist: _Thanks, Lauryn._

"Rehabilitation? He's here for  _life_. No possibility of parole." 

"I know that as well as you do," Parke says. He watches me twist the handle and the door open. "May I?" he asks. It's not really a question, and I've realised that before he's in my office, sitting in the chair usually occupied by my clients and the door has closed behind us.

"It's also about our reputation," he says in a rush as I sit down. "We  _need_  to make this work and we've received word from the  _governor_  about it."

"The  _governor_?"

"Apparently Klavier Gavin doesn't just have friends in low places," he says wryly. "And after the last incident involving him, and the fact that there are rumours doing the rounds that he could leak what happened-- or  _sue_ \-- we've been advised to make his visits as comfortable as possible." Parke looks defeated and pissed off; he doesn't like being ordered around, especially not from outsiders who haven't seen life on the floor and been involved with running the prison. "He's not asking for much anyway," he says. "And I'm not happy about it either, truth be known-- but there's little else we can do."

"So he's holding us to ransom, essentially. Blackmail?"

"No, he's not saying that at all." There's an almost amused smile from Parke then, and I know things are more complicated than he's letting on. "His communication has been through his  _lawyer_  so far, and..."

"He needs legal representation?" I ask. "Don't tell me Kristoph managed to get  _him_  disbarred, too?"

Parke laughs. "I knew you'd like it," he says. "It gets funnier, though."

"Don't tell me," I say with a grin-- the whole thing sounds like such a ridiculous, elaborate setup that it's hard to not find it amusing-- "the lawyer's that boyfriend of his from the paper, the defense attorney Gavin was mentoring and sleeping with. And he wants to be the witness?"

"Good guess," Parke says, but dismissively. His expression is deathly serious. "But no." He laughs again.

"Does the name Phoenix Wright ring a bell?"

I laugh. It's an automatic, knee-jerk reaction because it's so preposterously crazy, so obviously some sort of a setup, and somehow, deNong has been roped into all this from higher powers.

Evidently Klavier and Wright are a lot more manipulative than Kristoph Gavin. And a lot more game.

"You're kidding."

"It's kinda funny, isn't it?" he asks. He doesn't  _sound_  amused. "I'm just hoping that Gavin is willing to have a visit from them."

"He's actually expressed some interest," I mention. "I'm pretty sure if we phrase it in the right manner, he might accept the conditions and go along with it." I pause there. "I think he misses intelligent conversation."

Parke raises an eyebrow at me. "I've seen him talking plenty with Engarde," he says. "And he's not stupid."

"I don't think their relationship is purely intellectual," I offer, attempting tact. "As I'm sure you're aware."

He snorts. "I've had Waverley bitching about how disgusting it is and others expressing concern for one or the other of them," he says. "It's become a right little staff-room soap opera." He shrugs. "Far as I'm concerned, they're both as crazy as the other and until someone makes a report, I'm not doing anything."

I nod in agreement. "They both appear to be satisfied with their situation, at any rate." 

"I guess that's the polite way of describing it."

"We have a carrot there, anyway," he adds, standing up, "They both seem to be behaving themselves on the unit, and Engarde's tested clean to most of the stuff he usually doesn't test clean for... he seems settled. If they keep behaving themselves, I don't give a fuck what they do in there."

I nod, suspecting Parke's said his piece and implied how I should deal with things. Like him, I don't like being roped in to doing things professionally.

And I'm mystified, too, wishing I'd said something to Lauryn; wishing I'd been  _able_  to, that laws of confidentiality allowed for discussion between us. Did Lauryn suggest the protective measures or did Klavier? And more importantly,  _why_?

I'm left at my desk, thinking, trying to work out how-- and if-- I have to sell this to Gavin. If he doesn't agree to it, there's not a lot I can do about the situation. And maybe he _will_  agree.

I think about how insistent Parke was and at the suggestion that Klavier's blackmailling the prison into it, about Wright's involvement, and about the entire situation. It feels far too... manufactured. I find myself remembering Lily's words in the car park, wondering if this is connected somehow. 

Gavin doesn't have phone access at the moment, and presumably no one else would be aware of his movements. Who would set something like this up from within here, anyway? My thoughts drift vaguely to Crescend, but that makes no sense. And surely most of the men Klavier's put away wouldn't have memories committed to revenge; most of them have turned their enemies into men within their environment; Klavier Gavin is a  _name_  from another time and another world.

The fact that Wright is mentioned seems more than coincidental. Is this a revenge ploy from  _him_? If Gavin spent years setting up and keeping tabs on Wright, would it be possible that Wright could be doing the same thing?

It feels ominous and I have a horrible sense that it's going to happen despite my understandable apprehension.

I'm caught wondering if Gavin himself needs protection rather than his visitors.

 

 

There's a calm before every storm. 

And we get two weeks of calm on the unit; my schedule fills up with new admissions and thanks to the prioritising of new clients over old ones who aren't presenting with violent or disturbed behaviour, I don't see Gavin for a fortnight. 

Engarde is in good spirits; I haven't seen him this calm and oddly focused since he's been here.

It feels like stretching space; the calm is busy but good, the workload is hectic but manageable. We haven't had time to organise the impending Gavin visit, though it's on the cards, and a tentative date has been arranged. I'm informed via email and verbal reports from Parke that Gavin is satisfied and agrees to the visits, provided that I'm the resident psychiatric worker involved.

He trusts me. For some reason, I'm glad.

  
You know not to expect calm, not to cling to it and get complacent, and that the slightest disruption to things will shake it and send the unit into a tailspin. 

  


 

  
He was an adult film star, and his name is Timothy Plan. When he wasn't being photographed for beefcake calendars and pretending to be a college football hero taking one for the team or being a wide receiver-- not to mention a whole host of other sports-related euphemisms-- lining the pockets of Global Studios' subsidiary adult film company-- he was copiously using every drug imaginable.

He received fifty years for second-degree murder. His drug use had turned in on him; getting high with a fellow actor-- and then not doing anything when the fellow actor had asphixiated on his own vomit-- had ruined his career and his image. And apparently he was about to hit the big time.

He reminded me of Gavin when he strode in; he was tall and he carried himself with a kind of haughty you're- _beneath_ -me attitude and a smug glare. He managed to piss off most of the staff within about ten minutes of arrival; if it wasn't the James Dean good looks and the perfect body, it was the smarminess, the idea that it was all a big joke to him. 

"I've been in a  _movie_  about prison," he told the admitting officers-- one of whom happened to be Waverley-- when he arrived. "And the guards were much better looking than  _you_." 

 _That_  story was relayed to everyone else via the staffroom gossip chain; Lily cackled with a dry laugh, Waverley glared, Towne and Denham looked uncomfortable and there was a way they exchanged glances, creeped out and disgusted. 

"Can you medicate him?" Parke asked me, only partially in jest. "We've just gotten everything calmed down here and... I don't want any trouble."

"He's got a substance abuse problem but no  _other_  issues," I tell them. "So... without further information...  _no_."

"I can't believe he's been moved to A-wing." There is aghast horror in Hamm's voice.

"What's wrong with A-wing?" Towne rises to the defensive.

"Putting him amongst the drug gangs is like painting a target on his back. Everywhere else is full, and his...  _celebrity status_  means he's probably better off with the, er, celebrity stories." Parke looks satisfied with his explanation. No one else does.

Roy-- young, sweet, baby-faced Roy-- who's only new to the team and whom is already gossiped about amongst them; Roy who I suspect won't last long but who's so  _nice_  that I don't have the heart to offer career advice to-- looks puzzled. "I think I know of him," he says.

I can feel myself cringing on his behalf. Poor Roy; he takes the talks about equality and anti-discrimination in the workplace seriously; he truly and honestly believes that because we're told discrimination is wrong, people actually believe it, and walk the talk. 

If anything's confirmed the "Glenn Roy is gay" rumours, this has. "He actually  _is_  an actor, isn't he?"

"Adult films," Parke says in a final sort of drop-it-for-your-own-good-kid voice. 

There's a giggle amongst the group, nervous and broken. They don't know what to make of him. It's not like the prison population consists of many celebrities.

" _For men_ ," Waverley says, his voice loaded with disgust. "If you  _get my gist_." There's a flourish of a hand, too vague to be considered a gesture, too deliberate to be ignored. Unprofessional as it is of me, a part of me is waiting gleefully for him to say or do the wrong thing in front of the wrong person and for him to wear the consequential injuries.

Poor Roy; he lacks the poker face of the rest of them and I can tell in an instant that he knows exactly who Timothy Plan is. And that the rumours aren't going to stop any time soon. 

"I guess he's going to have a pretty awful wakeup call in here," Towne says gravely. "Any idea where to put him on the work program?"

"Ladies’ fashion," Waverley says smugly. He's ignored.

"He's vulnerable," Parke says. "He's not going to be accustomed to this and his celebrity and choice of  _roles_  makes him a target." I nod. Parke, brusqueness aside, is at least speaking practically. "And since we've had  _other_  incidents happening with  _particular_  individuals..."

"Oh, Christ." Hamm looks like he's just connected two pieces of logic. "He's another Engarde."

"Hopefully  _not_." Parke offers steadily.

"Gavin'd enjoy that, wouldn't he?" Waverley asks.

I watch Roy's face turn red again and the way he looks at the floor. 

"I wonder what Gavin's going to say about it, actually," Hamm says. "If he's an actor, he might know Engarde..."

"The soap opera just gets uglier," Towne mutters. He sips his coffee, that edge to his voice reminding me too much of Lily in the car park. 

"Who's he in with?" I ask randomly. I'm trying not to think about the idea of him encountering Engarde and suddenly our beautiful balance being disrupted. 

"Armando, for the time being," Parke says. "Since deLite's probably going to do the rest of his sentence in the psych ward, we moved his stuff out and Mr. Godot's got a spare bed."

"Clash of the egos," says Hamm.

"At least they're both harmless," Parke says. "Godot just keeps out of everyone's way, and this Plan kid doesn't have a history here, neither of them are violent, so it's better than anything else we could do right now." He grins. "Hell, they might be able to compare bodycounts and bedroom stories. At least they have something in common."

There's a collective laugh, and while I'm glad Plan is safe, I can't help but wonder for how long.

 

 

"I must apologise," I tell him as he sits down, "for what happened last week."

He looks at me curiously, as though he's not sure what  _for_. Like it's  _my_  fault that things have suddenly changed. "Sometimes things happen outside our control." I offer a weak smile, and the expression on his face changes, as though I'm weak or stupid, as though everything in one's environment is predictable and controllable.

"I did miss our little test-a-tete," he says solemnly-- "I quite enjoy them."

And then there's a smile-- relaxed and easygoing. It looks forced, and I wonder what lies beneath, for the millionth time since I've started working with him.

"The question I should ask, I guess," I say, "Is-- are you getting anything out of your time with me?"

It's something I've wondered about, too-- it's been months and despite the occasional flashes of feeling like I've broken through something with him, he still largely remains a mystery to me. In all the time I've been seeing him, he's managed to shirk discussing why he's here or anything much deeper than a few surface things which he chooses to release to me. " _Are_  you actually getting anything out of it?" I feel helpless and flailing, almost useless. But giving up on him would be worse, I keep reminding myself.

And anyway, he trusts me, and I have a visit to sell to him. 

"What an interesting question." He pauses, still smiling. "I believe I am." 

"Do you want to elaborate on that?"

"I feel calmer," he says. "More at ease with my surroundings. More open about discussing the inner workings of my mind with strangers." He adjusts his glasses. "Is that what you need to note down somewhere?"

I chuckle. "No," I say. "I was just curious, that's all. Sometimes I don't feel like I'm doing very much."

"You underestimate yourself, doctor," he says smoothly. 

I shouldn't be falling for the flattery but I can't help it; this is probably the most unrewarding result of spending nearly a decade at college, this is the job where I'm threatened, I'm sworn at, I'm up against people who don't want anything to do with me, and somehow Gavin's connected and he's able to see me as a professional worthy of his attention.

I can't  _help_  but be flattered. 

"So... how are you feeling about things?" I ask coolly. "Last week there were some significant changes on the unit..."

His face tightens then, he's unimpressed. And seeing him change from smooth and youthful-featured into a steely, hardened man of angles and cold, furious glare so quickly is terrifying. "I think I know what you mean," he says. "Plan."

"Well, Plan was one thing I was going to mention..."

\--"I hate him."

It's so blunt and final and unlike anything I've heard from him. He normally rationalises and explains everything, there's an intellectual-- rather than brute, final,  _human_  bent to his feelings. This is raw and harsh and solid.

I can't help but raise an eyebrow. "Do you want to talk about that?" I ask. "I-- think it might be a good idea to--"

"He's smug, arrogant, vacuous and entirely  _useless_."

There's something interesting in his words.

 _Jealousy._

Even when he talked about Wright and his involvement with him, there was a detachment, it was purely impersonal. Wright had to be pushed out the way and removed because he'd threatened his ego and sense of identity; there was no statement on his behaviour or intelligence or goodness or anything else. Perhaps there'd been something else; he barely touched upon it, and it remained another pool of questions I longed to dive into-- but there was no outright hostility expressed. Justice, whom he'd similarly dismissed and tried to set up-- wasn't referred to in such harsh terms. 

"Is something the problem, doctor?" he asks. "You're looking at me strangely."

He shifts in his chair and blinks at me. He's softened a little bit, but nonetheless, the anger which he's made little effort to hide is still there. It's easy for me to imagine him striking a blow to someone and killing them with that rage and force behind him.

I've never seen him look like that before, and terrified as I'm trying not to look, I'm fascinated.

"You seem to have very strong opinions on someone who is a relative stranger," I tell him. 

His jaw is clenched and his eyes narrowed. There's a little wrinkle between his brow, and he looks like he wants to hurt something very badly.

I feel the leather of the duress alarm, my deodorant working overtime. That thing on my neck is  _throbbing_.

"I don't like him," he says. His nose wrinkles with disgust. "Surely that's acceptable, doctor? Surely you've encountered people who you don't like, you see no value in, and you wish weren't here?"

I'm frozen, horrified and sick. He spoke more warmly of his victims when he touched upon them, and of Wright. I've opened Pandora's box, and I have the reactive desire to slam it shut and cast it away somewhere.

"You appear to harbour an extreme level of hatred towards him," I say quietly.

"Perhaps I'd like him better if he had some scruples and wasn't trying to drag Engarde back to the life he'd moved on from." There's disgust in his voice, and I'm wondering who it's leveled at-- Plan, Engarde-- or himself, for  _caring_.

"What do you mean by that?"

He gives me a withering, unimpressed glare as though I should already know. "Engarde's clean now," he says.

"So Plan is using?"  _Shit._  He was moved here to curb that.

"I have no idea," he admits, "Though I wouldn't be surprised if he were." A pause and a sniff. "If he wants to not wake up one morning after a heavy night on some vice or another, I couldn't care less," he states. "But that he's already trying to exert control over Engarde and he's encouraging him to use  is another thing entirely," he says. "I wish for my cell to remain drug free, doctor... my reputation is at stake."

Typically self-interested, but practical. If suspicion falls onto Gavin for using, he could lose his job at the library, be subjected to violations of his privacy, and the inconveniences of drug testing.

But he's shown no evidence of using, himself. His admission report had him coughing to experimenting with coke while he was in college, but he didn't like how out of control it made him feel and he didn't experiment any further with it.

"It's not just about you, though, is it?"

"And I object strongly to being objectified in a sexual manner." There's a shake in his voice which I find odd. His face isn't hardened any more, he now looks strangely distracted.

"I don't know what you mean by that, I'm sorry."

"I'm talking about Plan’s unamusing and tasteless requests for group sex which are more irksome and frequent than the duress alarms being set off," he says with a sniff. "It's undignified."

"Has he done that?"

" _Yes_ , doctor. And I'm finding it obnoxious, frankly." He tosses his head slightly and makes the sort of face suggesting he's stepped in something unmentionable in polite society.

Still, that's no reason to harbour that much hatred towards the man. Not in a place like this, which Gavin is perfectly accustomed to.

"How do you deal with those requests?" I ask.

A bitter, twisted smile curls into his lips and he waits awhile before answering. The result is terrifying, as I'm sure the answer will be.

"I've told him to ask Furio Tigre and Damon Gant to assist him with that."

 

It's not that the answer is particularly vulgar, or especially twisted that's horrifying, it's the crumple in his voice, the way he's staring into the wall to his left, the fact that he's trying to sound deadpan and unamused. He certainly doesn't sound  _amused_  either; it's attempted and failed laughter to hide something very thinly. He wants to talk but he can't. 

Engarde's words run through my head.

As do Gavin's, during our session where we needed a point for continuation, when he said he wished to discuss sex.

We're discussing it. In a sense. In a roundabout, can't-talk sort of way. More twisted and hard to access than any of his other truths, though alarmingly-- and frustratingly-- visible now.

And I have absolutely no idea about what to say to that; he doesn't  _want_  to talk; he's walking the thin line between not mentioning it and falling into denial or repression and needing to talk about it whether he  _wants_  to or not.

And I can't ignore the suggested brutality he's implying, too-- that what happened to him is a perfectly acceptable situation for his fellow man to be in. There's an extra level of brutality in his words if he knows what the experience of being sexually assaulted is like and he's wishing it on someone else.

  
I try for a different tactic. Try to quell the bile in my throat long enough to see the session out, to get rid of him; I can be sick to my heart's content once he's left, I can write reports and recommendations then, I can finally put an end to--

"No, I do not wish to discuss it," he says. "Though I will state that their actions have affected me and my time here." He folds his hands in his lap again. My mind is piecing together things; why Engarde and his passive, fucked up masochism is  _safe_  and desirable for someone like him, why he liked spending time in solitary so much, his concerns about his safety... 

I can't push him. He won't talk if he's pushed; I've been here long enough to know that pushing generally doesn't do anything except shut down communication. 

The prison needs more than me. It needs psychologists, specialists in trauma and recovery. Workers who have the time to listen and empathise, who are expected to do more than offer diagnosis and prescription.

I almost wish Lauryn worked with the population; it seems she's made a name for herself working with trauma victims. 

Then I consider Gavin; my Gavin, not  _her_  Gavin; and think that she doesn't deserve it-- and that he's one of the more communicative and easy to deal with. Nonetheless-- I make a mental note to ask her for some pointers, because... I'm stumped. Stuck. Gavin's a complete mystery to me sometimes, still.

"You don't seriously mean what you just said about Plan, then, do you?" 

It's a kneejerk response born of horror and disgust. Maybe I just truly don't want to believe that he's really that low.

"I just wish he'd concern himself with  _others_  amongst the population here," he says with a sigh. "He is of no discernible use to Engarde or myself."

 _Use_. Lovely. Maybe this answer is worse than the one I was expecting.

He looks bored. "I wish I hadn't wasted all this time and energy discussing him," he says. He's growing calmer, smoother. "The man's only been here a week and he's already grating at me. He sniffs. "And there really are many more pleasant things to discuss." 

I'm reminded of his visit with Klavier.

"Speaking of which..." 

Maybe the discussion has distracted him. Maybe he'll agree just out of desire for some other micro goal-- to annoy Engarde, to make him  _jealous_ , perhaps, because he wants to continue talking to me and he's smart enough to realise that cooperation makes his life easier.

His eyes light up. "Yes?" He picks at a fingernail and looks at me, interested.

"Klavier has agreed to visit you." 

 

Yes, I'm aware of that," he says, bored. "And the last time he wanted to have a glass wall between us and his lawyer present." He looks unimpressed. "And frankly, I'd prefer not to see Justice for the time being."

That alone is interesting-- is he protecting Justice from his own anger? Or is his desire not to see his former protege more about protecting himself?

"The conditions changed-- and I believe, as your mental health professional-- that it would be beneficial for you to see your brother."

He looks at me then with warm, trusting eyes, and I feel almost guilty for that phrase. I'm annoyed with the fact that we've all been railroaded into it, and I make a mental note to laughingly bring it up with Lauryn when I speak to her next. 

"And the new conditions are...?" he asks, expectant.

This is looking better and more hopeful than I expected.

"Klavier wishes to see you for a mediation" -- he licks his lips, as though amused and anticipating a challenge-- "and he wishes to be accompanied at all times. He wishes to have his lawyer with him, and me." I pause, waiting for him to take it all in. "How does that sound to you?" I ask.

He smiles at me, and I'm annoyed; he looks like he's already made his mind up, and he's just toying with me, dragging it out, will he or won't he agree?

"It sounds lovely," he says. "Though I'm curious as to why we need a  _mediation_."

So am I, actually. Unless... did Klavier suspect that he had something to do with the attack on him?

"Perhaps you can ask him about that," I tell him. "I wasn't given details, either."

He smiles. "I shall," he says.

We've run three minutes overtime. And I have a head full of notes to write down and prisoner interactions to report on. 

"Okay," I say, trailing, in that way he understands--  _we're out of time..._

He smiles. "Right," he says. "Time to go."

I nod, and he stands as I radio Hamm to collect him. Hamm has been waiting outside my door, expecting him. When it opens, he gives me a curious look. 

"Another session?" he asks.

"If you wish, Mr. Gavin." A nod and I'm seated, but I hear his voice continue-- "we never got to discuss what we'd agreed to previously." 

There's an odd smile on his face as he's led out of my office. 

I jot down three things: 

 _* Minimise and supervise interactions between Plan and Gavin_ _  
* Be aware of the movements and interactions of Gant and Tigre; and  
* Gavin Family Mediation_

I'm oddly satisfied.

  
Moments later, my fist is hitting my desk, and I swear to myself. 

I forgot to tell him who Klavier's lawyer is.

 

 

I think the routine eats away at us. 

 _All_  of us, whether we're here because we're being paid or because we're repaying a debt to society. The routine pulls us in, it controls us, it shapes us. It gives life a dull, predictable lifelessness.

It never surprises me when the inmates get in trouble for doing stupid things-- minor property destruction, slacking off on their work, deciding to deviate from what they're meant to be doing for a few moments-- just as a way of sticking it to the man and evading, for a short time, the routine.

  
When Parke appears in my office not long after my coffee break, wearing a puzzled look on his face and holding a report, I wonder what he's going to tell me. He doesn't look stressed or bothered, he just looks overwhelmingly  _confused_.

"I think Gavin's finally losing it," he says solemnly.

I raise an eyebrow. "He's actually been rather... cooperative lately. I'm satisfied with his progress."

"Then explain to me," he mutters, "Why I had to note that Gavin has been sent back from his library duties for... wasteful destruction of prison resources."

"I have absolutely no idea." It's like someone's told me the first half of a knock knock joke and I'm expected to fill in the rest. "You tell  _me_."

"He hasn't expressed any irritation about working in the library?" Parke suggests. "I mean, erasing expletives and gang graffiti from books and reshelving things is hardly scintillating for someone like him, I suppose."

"He hasn't said a word," I say. "From the last I heard of it, he was enjoying himself there."

Something bothers me: in the distant regions of my brain I get a  twitch; I remember White's comments and paranoia.

"What was he doing?" I ask slowly.

"So you  _do_  have reservations?"

"Not really-- but... what was he doing?"

"It's weird," he says. "Field saw him putting whole reams of printer paper into the shredder. He apparently just sat there, watching it get sucked into the shredder,  _smiling_."

"That's... strange."

I could try and attach a theory to why he'd do something like that, forgetting that he's human, and liable to partake in the same sorts of pointlessly destructive behaviour-- as anyone else is. While he appears to have motives for everything he does, what if-- he  _doesn't_  in this case? What if this is just a childish "fuck you" to the system from an intelligent and bored man who's gradually getting sick of the routine? What if he just wants to see something destroyed? I suppose paper is better than a human being.

"He's a weird one," Parke says, then adds "You'd know better than the rest of us, right?"

I nod. "How did he deal with being sent back to the unit?"

"He was irritated, but accepted it."

So he doesn't  _want_  to get into trouble.

"I suppose it's better than him trying to get himself sent to solitary," I point out. Parke's eyebrows rise. 

"Are you also entertaining the idea that the incident with Wellington might have been about that?" he asks in an undertone.

I had, at one stage, and then in the ensuing chaos since then, and the fact that nothing else happened to suggest that Gavin wished to return, I'd forgotten about it.

"I considered it," I said. "he was saying he doesn't feel safe on the unit and... apparently something  _happened_  to him not long after he came in here."

"Geez, I don't know." Parke looks flustered. "Something's always happening-- or people are saying that something's happening. Usually to get out of doing stuff-- you know how it goes."

This time, it's  _me_  raising the eyebrow; Parke's skeptical about assault claims unless he's seen them or someone else has, or unless someone's looking noticeably downtrodden. I can't see Gavin playing the victim; looking like a victim wouldn't be dignified for him, and I can imagine him rationalising that it would attract further victimisation.

"There is an enormous dark figure when it comes to male sexual assault statistics," I point out stiffly. "Getting most of these guys to talk about being a victim is like trying to squeeze blood out of a rock."

"Yeah, yeah, I know-- but, look-- there hasn't been anything on file about Gavin-- or else you'd have been seeing him earlier than you did."

"Maybe no one saw anything," he suggests. "No one who's going to talk about it, anyway." He sighs. "I can't do anything until he talks."

"Do you share the same suspicions as I do about the culprits?" Another raised eyebrow from me.

"Tigre and Gant were standing over deLite when he first came in," he says. "We increased their observations and didn't see anything untoward after deLite was moved."

"He'd been assaulted, though, hadn't he?"

"He wouldn't talk. Apparently they were threatening to do his wife."

"See what I mean?" I ask. "They have reasons for not talking."

"Gavin isn't concerned about anyone except himself. He has no reason to remain silent."

"You saw the report about Engarde, though-- that suspicions on those guys are looking valid?"

"Yeah-- Waverley and Tona are keeping an eye on them but they're not bringing anything up," he says with a shrug. "Can't do much more than that."

I nod. "I just... like the idea of them being observed at least."

"Why, coz they don't come visit you, doc?" He chuckles.

"Aren't the craziest people the ones who can't even admit it."

"You see Gavin and Engarde admitting they're fucking nuts?"

Gavin and Engarde. Like they're a team, a partnership--

We both start speaking at the same time.

"Gavin's got some plan going on with Engar--"

"He seems to enjoy Engarde's company." My statement feels weak and sentimental.

"What do you think he's planning?" I ask. 

"Waverley noted the other day that Plan seems to have gotten in with Gant and White's crowd, that they're acting like old pals, and that Plan still seems to be talking to Engarde."

"Maybe it's their way of getting at Gavin."

"Why would they want to get at Gavin?" he asks.

"Gavin said Gant doesn't like him for not bending to his will or something," I say. "Maybe that's enough reason to make his life a living hell. And then there's the Engarde factor: Engarde seems to have been ousted from the Gant group since Gavin came back onto the unit. Maybe they want revenge on him in some way, too... I mean... they lost Engarde and they were exploiting him on  _some_  level."

Parke rolls his eyes, sick of the conversation. "It's like being a den mother at an all-girls' boarding school," he says.

"Except that they're not trying to murder and rape one another."

"The drug problems are probably about the same," Parke says wryly. 

Something else occurs to me. "How's Plan going, by the way-- I haven't spoken to him at length and given the recent drug problems we've been having around here..."

"They seemed to dry up when we got Carlos Rivales out of the mail room," he says. "We found the deMoraleses trying to sell washing powder to some of the Greens saying it was speed, and there were a few guys attempting some godawful pruno making awhile ago, but it's been pretty quiet."

"Wouldn't we have more people going crazy from withdrawal then?" I ask.

"Booted them to the psych unit," he says with a shrug. "Gets them off the stuff, keeps them cleaner-- and most of the problems we were having were isolated to C and D wings. Seems we nipped the fucker in the bud." He smiles wryly. "We're up on drama, down on overdoses," he says. "We should congratulate ourselves."

Parke's clever, though, and realises that his job performance is evaulated on figures which are reported, not on the things no one wants to talk about.

And I'm still wondering about Gavin and the  _event_  which he spoke of.

"Can I take a look at Gavin's file?" I ask. "Something just seems...  _off_."

"Yeah-- the  _paper shredder_. He's being a real badass." He sighs again, his huge shoulders rising and falling. "I can see what'll happen if the rest of them find out; he'll be taunted so much about shredding paper that he'll  _have_  to do something to prove he's got balls. Remember that McCubbin guy? They called him Paint Picker."

"I remember him before the courts after he tried hitting someone in the head with a ball made of compacted wall paint," I say.

"I forgot about that." Parke chuckles. "Crazy fucker. They get creative, don't they?"

"They have time to get creative."

  
There's a sigh exchanged between the two of us, and the silence that follows, the knowledge that we could be here for hours talking shop and the craziness we've seen over the years. "I'll go dig up Gavin's file for you," he says, before taking leave from my office.

I make a note to ask Gavin about the shredding of the paper.

 

“I was bored," he tells me. 

He's sitting in the chair, looking at me like he's slightly amused by the whole thing. A smirking kid in the principal's office, not at all threatened or bothered by it. "I shan't do it again, doctor-- I was still bored when I returned to my cell. I'd left the books I was borrowing in the library, and Engarde was in the mail room."

I'm not buying it for a minute.

"You were  _bored_?" I ask him. "I thought the work interested you."

"There are only so many times you can rub out the words  _So-and-so is a faggot_  or  _Somebody-or-other sucks cock_  that someone's written on the pages of a timeless classic-- or even an airport bestseller-- before you start to grow weary of it," he says. 

"But your  _boredom_  in this case-- being taken out via senseless destruction-- is a black mark against your ability to work in the library," I tell him. "And to get other privileges."

He freezes then. "I do hope my visit isn't compromised then."

Did he  _want_  to have his visit cancelled? Is he  _afraid_  of the visit happening?

"No," I tell him gravely, "It's not. A mediation involving a lawyer is classed as a professional visit." Fucking loopholes and celebrities with friends in high places.

He smiles. "It will be a meeting with  _three_  lawyers," he says.

"You're disbarred." 

"Wright was disbarred and people were still calling  _him_  a lawyer... they say one never loses that vigour and determination and interest." He blinks. "I certainly haven't."

"Have you thought about trying to use your professional skills to benefit the other men incarcerated here?" I ask casually. It's an idea, at least. He could probably free up the state attorneys who get asked to come in and offer advice on hopeless cases, at any rate.

He sniffs. "Do you  _really_  want most of these men back in amongst society?" he asks dryly. "I certainly wouldn't want that if I were a free man."

 _But you're not_ , I'm compelled to say.  _Yet you're still thinking like one._

I wonder if this is why he hasn't broken down or fallen to pieces or really  _done_  anything barring the isolated incident involving Wellington and shredding up some reams of paper.

"You make a reasonable argument, I suppose." I smile at him. 

"I haven't lost it, either." There's a hint of resignation in his voice when he says it, which almost makes me sad: what happens when your entire life's work becomes meaningless and forgotten, yet you still harbour that sense of what you are, and you can't just switch it off and return to something more mundane?

I try to imagine being in Kristoph Gavin's place. I wonder if I'd be doing more than shredding paper.

But then again, I wouldn't kill my career like that, would I? No--

"We should discuss something else," he says abruptly.

I want to ask if he changed the subject because it's painful, but he beats me into another line of conversation before I can.

"Now the  _last_  time you asked what I wanted to discuss--" A gleeful flush comes into his face then-- he's remembered-- "was..." He folds his hands in his lap and leans forward, engaged-- " _Sex_."

"You remembered," I say quietly.

"Of course." There's a smile on his face. "One of life's simple pleasures, isn't it?" A thoughtful pause. "One which was mostly just an abstract concept to me until quite recently--"

The smile widens, and he looks thoughtful. There's no shame or awkwardness in his manner or tone which is vaguely disturbing. "Why do you wish to discuss sex, Mr. Gavin?"

"It's a perfectly taboo, Freudian subject, isn't it?"

"But where is the relevance to  _you_  and  _your_  situation?"

"I had the impression that being in therapy was giving me the opportunity to find out about who I am by analysing who I am at base level," he says slowly, eyes intent and seeking out mine. "And I'd argue that most human beings have a tendency towards brutal, uncontrollable honesty when they're having sex." There's a little smile from him. "And anyway, perhaps you would understand me a bit better if we discussed the topic."

 

So  _this_  is his roundabout way of talking about what happened to him? The event which never made it into his file? A secret so great and terrible that he has to riddle around it with someone he feels safe with?

"If you wish," I say with an easygoing shrug. I'm worried that I appear indifferent. I'm worried that if I don't, he'll try to exploit it somehow. I'm worried he's growing dependent on me: therapy-- the narcissist's ultimate pleasure, I suppose. 

"I don't know where to start," he says.

"Well we talked a little about Justice"--  _and I have no desire to hear any more about_ that-- "and we've discussed Engarde-- perhaps we could talk more about how you feel about sexuality and sex and less about the individuals you've been intimate with?" 

"Are you like Waverley?" he asks out of the blue.

"What?" 

"You know-- somewhat repulsed by the details and horrified at the idea that two men could enjoy one another sexually." He blinks. "Though I suspect Waverley's homophobia only goes so far and he can comfortably ignore such behaviour in _some_ individuals." He looks almost gleeful as he continues, like he's figured something out and has stabbed me; now's where he's twisting the knife and watching me writhe in pain-- and where did I get such violent imagery from? Am I really that horrified that a sociopath-- or whatever he is-- thinks I'm like Waverley?

"Not at all," I say. And I'm being honest; I'd rather his intense and positively creepy-- yet strangely sophisticated and polite mentions of sex to the way a lot of the other inmates talk about it. "But I'm interested-- what makes you say that Waverley isn't a homophobe?"

There's no use in avoiding it; he's seen Waverley, I've seen Waverley, he's seen me see Waverley; Waverley is brash and blunt about his prejudice. But I'd always assumed that it was just narrow-minded blue-collar traditionalism, not selective.

"Waverley was one of the workers who disrupted one of the attacks on Engarde," he says. "And I  _know_  I'm not supposed to discuss other inmates' circumstances with you-- but I was merely using it as evidence that perhaps Waverley's prejudice is much more selective than it seems."

I hadn't considered that, really, but he's correct: Waverley and Gant seem to get along well, and Gant hasn't exactly got a reputation for being as straight as a rail. I file that tidbit of information away for some later time, irritated that Gavin or Engarde haven’t formally complained about Waverley. A formal complaint could get him moved-- or demoted. Or  _fired_ , and I've seen the way the other workers react towards him. 

"I'm not at all like Waverley," I say. "It would be unprofessional and biased for me to be homophobic, and I wouldn't have lasted as long as I have if I were."

"I suppose that's a better answer than if you claimed to have a gay uncle or a lesbian sister or something," he says dryly. "That sort of black-and-white association irritates me and it's flawed logic." He chuckles. "It would be like me stating that I have no problem with show pony rock stars because my brother is one."

I can't help but smile. " _Do_  you have a problem with show pony rock stars?" I ask him. "And if you do, why were you living in this region?"

"Not at all," he says. "They're a fact of life, and mildly amusing. But I'm not arguing that I like them because I'm related to one."

"What about lawyers?" I ask. We've shifted again, we're almost jovial and joking. I suppose we're building rapport.

"I seem to wind up sleeping with lawyers," he says thoughtfully. "I guess it suggests something when the relationship with the actor renowned for his giant ego and mental instability is more satisfying than any of the relationships I've had with lawyers." He chuckles. "Perhaps my sample needs widening."

Another chuckle, and for some reason, something doesn't sit well with me about it-- he's been involved with Wright, and Justice--  _two_  lawyers. Hardly a sample size or a "type."

"Which I'd prefer it didn't," he says quickly, "Because I'm still quite interested in Engarde." The smile changes; there's a warmth and an almost sweetness to it, like he's fondly recalling his cellmate. Darkly and disturbingly sentimental from him.

I'm surprised. There have been no more incidents of loud injurious sex in the middle of the night from them. I suspected that they'd lost interest in one another. Or that Engarde had moved on to Plan.

"On what sort of level?" I ask quietly. Now. Here. We're talking about sex.

"A number," he says. "Strangely enough: I always suspected he was involved with the initial attack on me when I arrived here, and I remember when Engarde was less scrupulous about his behaviour, he attempted propositioning me and I wasn't interested." He chuckles, then; it's genuine, his whole body moves and his glasses slide down his nose. He looks relaxed. And for a moment, he's not a sociopath or the possibility of one, he's not a smart-ass lawyer with control-freak tendencies, he's not some creepy man with a jealousy complex which would put some of the ancient Greek myths to shame; he's a charming thirty-something discussing the ironies of the world and a man he's possibly quite fond of.

It's interesting how he assumes that Engarde was involved in the initial assault upon him, too. "So you forgave him?"

"When someone is acting under duress, there are legal sanctions for them," he says simply. "In short: I had nothing to forgive." He smiles again. "I'be grown quite fond of him."

"Is this just because of the sex?" I'm curious. 

"Engarde reminds me of other partners I've had," he says. "He's got Wright's extroverted passion and in a way, Justice's enthusiasm and cockiness and yet that desire to bring me pleasure." Adjusting his glasses, he continues. "Of course, it probably helps that his interests correspond perfectly with my own."

It's now that I'm waiting to feel sickened, my body is stiff and I can't move from the seat, but I have that desire to look at the trainwreck any way. Even though I'm going to regret it.

"Interests?"

"Interests, quirks, desires, specialties-- fetishes, I suppose." He sounds disturbingly clinical. "Justice never enjoyed pain; he had a kicked puppy look on his face as though he was being betrayed when he was being hurt-- Wright just seemed resigned and accepting, like nothing could ever be too horrible-- he pushed me, on occasions, tempted me to go a step further, to force him to feel something, to react... but it was rare for him to do so."

It's like he's reading notes out from a scientific study. 

"Why do you hurt people?" I ask him, desperate to keep my voice steady. My eyes move away from his even though I don't want them to, the room seems smaller and claustrophic. "Usually people seem sex as an expression of love-- or-- pleasure, at least."

He laughs, then, like I'm stupid. "Is it, doctor?" he asks. 

Has something happened to him to convince him otherwise?

Or is he just  _like that_?

"Generally speaking, yes."

"To me it's been about so many things," he says. He's calm. Almost amused. "It's always seemed to me to be about two people having needs which need to be fulfilled, and the interaction thereof," he continues. "What the other person's are are never fully realised since we can't read minds." He strokes his chin thoughtfully. "At least Engarde's need for pain and humiliation matches nicely with my somewhat aggressive nature." He smiles again, smugly. "He was the one who asked to be bitten," he says. "And I was more than happy to oblige."

I can feel a stiffness in my hands, and I'm tempted to crack my knuckles. I'm almost pleased that it looks like they've stopped their nighttime activities-- I can deal with, without fully understanding the concept of sadomasochistic sex-- but it seems that of the three tenets of "safe," "sane" and "consensual," at least one of them is missing from the equation.

"So I suppose it's a bit of a disappointment now that you're not doing it any more?" I ask. Yes, I sound relieved. I can't help it.

"Who said anything had stopped?" he asks innocently. "I just have to go to some effort to keep him quiet."

I don't reply to that, because I don't really wish to know. 

"You look uncomfortable, doctor," he says calmly. "I apologise if my forthright discussion has upset you."

"It hasn't," I tell him, and I'm being honest; it hasn't. But I'd rather not listen all the same; I've dealt with inmates who had a  _thing_  about disclosing sexually explicit stories to me, under the guise of it being therapeutic-- all the while they weren't getting any help from the sessions but they were getting off.

I can't see Gavin doing that, but it feels oddly similar.

"So shall we discuss the abstract when it comes to sex?" he asks. He doesn't give me a chance to agree or otherwise. "I'm actually quite surprised: I entertained the notion that I wasn't especially interested in sex for its own sake for many years." 

"What happened?" I asked.

"Oh, in the interests of scientific inquiry, I had a few casual encounters. My later high school days involved a few one-night stands when I was seeking something  _else_ amongst seemingly endless assignments and exams... I noticed that my contemporaries sought sexual activity and wanted to see what all the fuss was about."

"How did that go?"

"They were unsatisfactory, to say the least." He shuts down, and looks bothered, like there's a fly in the room somewhere, and his eyes dart around warily. "Most of them left me wondering what the point was, and I deduced that sex is far more interesting when you have at least some interest in the person and some knowledge of who they are... I had one night stands, which were meaningless and which I tired of, and I had a vague inkling that maybe, despite what my mind seemed to be gravitating towards-- I was attracted to women." He chuckles again. "I sought the services of a  _professional_ , and the whole thing failed to arouse me." His nose wrinkles. "Anonymity doesn't attract me," he says. "And it appears that women do not, either." He doesn't look bothered by his statement. "I actually believed, for a long time, that I just wasn't really meant to find intimacy with others, that what I was supposedly missing out on could be directed elsewhere."

"So you saw a prostitute?" I ask. 

"I had fake identification and money to burn," he says smugly. "It wasn't that difficult."

"Had it occurred to you that perhaps you were too young to be interested in people in that way?"

"Briefly," he says, "And had my lack of interest disappeared when I grew older, I would have moved to the same conclusion as you have, doctor... but...  _no_."

"What changed your mind then?"

He looks uncomfortable. It's a rare, fleeting moment for him-- is he embarrassed, ashamed, or worried about how I might react?

"I doubt you will be interested," he says flippantly, "But it was realising that sex didn't just have to be impersonal and about being used of exploited by someone else which changed everything; it was seeing someone at their weakest, making their body  _do things_ , having such power over someone that they reacted involuntarily." He stops. "Is  _that_  enough for you?"

"Was love ever a consideration?" I ask.

"Not in the initial encounters-- I wasn't even interested in them-- but beyond that...  _yes_." He smiles. "To some degree, anyway."

 _Maybe it's as capable of feeling love as you are_ , I wonder, and find myself reverting to my sociopath theory.

"I loved Justice, in a perfectly innocent, protective fashion, except that the sex probably sullied that innocence. And I loved Wright, too-- again, in an almost protective fashion." He looks at me and smiles. "I suspect that's something I'm drawn to and for some reason find attractive-- being able to look after and protect someone."

What a paradox. 

"But you were responsible for Wright's downfall, we're you?"

"Wright needed his wings clipped," he says coolly. "It wasn't personal, and at least some of my motivation was for Klavier." He smiles again. "And I loved Klavier."

"You were looking after him, too?"

It's only after I've said it that I realise what I might be implying. I think he misses it; he blinks and smiles warmly. "Yes," he says.

"And, you...  _looked after_  Wright in the aftermath of what had happened?"

He nods. "I attempted to make him comfortable, because on some level, I was intrigued by him. On one hand, he appeared to be like me; another defense lawyer who was about my age, who was determined and ethical and who had made a name for himself..." He trails off. "I hated him, too, though: he bested me when he wasn't meant to, and he manipulated Justice into bringing me down. And he's cost Justice a lot, careerwise, I can only imagine-- I had taught him so much, shaped him so well and then... Wright ruined everything." He looks thoughtful once more. "I despised Wright and yet I was fascinated with him and felt affectionate towards him." There's another pause. "Had he stayed where he was meant to and not done what he did, corrupting my assistant and sending me here, I could have possibly grown to love him in a more ordinary and conventional sense. I looked after him, I nurtured him..."

"But was it genuine affection or did you just enjoy the power?" 

"I never had power to enjoy," he says, nose wrinkling, hands shifting. "I always thought his disaffected behaviour towards me was just depression, when he was, in truth, just hiding his cards well and dissociating." He looks annoyed now. "I treated him well, though," he says. "I made sure he never went hungry, and kept him company when his other friends had abandoned him-- and I  _know_  he had a more varied and active sex life than Edgeworth is giving him."

I'm vaguely amused; the jealousy and attempt to one-man-up Edgeworth is interesting. It only occurs to me then that no one has told him that Wright is Klavier's lawyer and that he will be making a reappearance into Kristoph Gavin's life soon, albeit briefly. I decide not to say anything.

"How do you know that?" I ask.

He chuckles behind his hand, and I find myself looking for the devil. No devil today. "I have my ways," he says. He reverts to his discussion of Wright rather than his machismo about his apparently diminished sex life.

"But, yes, I looked after him; I enjoyed that aspect of my time with Wright." 

There's a pause. 

"I suppose it's a bit like that with Engarde." His mouth twitches like he's about to say something else, and there's a flash in his eyes, like something more pressing and urgent has consumed him. "I sometimes wonder how Engarde feels about me."

Is this him worrying that he's going to get hurt?

"I'm concerned about Engarde spending time with that Plan, who seems to have crossed over to Gant and his friends..."

"Are you worried about betrayal?"

I remember his vehement disgust when it comes to betrayal. "In a place like this, it would be foolish to get complacent," he says.

"But you're worried you're doing it any way?"

"Possibly," he says quietly.

There's a short silence, and I realise we need to briefly discuss the meeting-- the mediation-- the one that Phoenix Wright will be in attendance at, which I've managed to not disclose to him. "I'm mindful of the time," I tell him easily. "It's been... a good session, today, wouldn't you think?" On one hand, I've seen him open up more. I think I understand him better.

On another hand, I have a dark suspicion that with his controlling urges and arrogance, he's untreatable. Management is the aim here.

"It has been," he says. "Thankyou, doctor."

He's about to stand up and leave, but I urge him to stop. "We need to talk about your meeting-- it's been scheduled for next week; two pm on Tuesday--"

"But I'm at work during then," he says--

"You'll be allowed to miss out--"

"But I don't want to."

This is the first time I've seen him like that, angry and petulant and childlike, as though he's about to scream and jump on the desk. I realise he's a perfectionist who likes maintaining a good working record-- and that he's probably trying to restore faith in the staff at the library after his adventures with the shredder-- but--

"It's all right; the library staff already know about it; they'll understand."

His voice returns to normal, he's soothed. "If you say so," he says then. "And...  _you'll_  be there, doctor?"

"Sitting right next to you, if you like." I offer him a reassuring smile. "You'll be fine, Mr. Gavin."

 

"I've taken up smoking," I tell Lauryn. 

We're sitting in the back courtyard of a small cafe, The Green Mint, which does wonderful organic, health-freak dishes and has notes about acting locally and thinking globally scrawled in chalk next to the menu boards. There's an irony in choosing this place to confess my sin.

"Oh?" she asks. "Work getting a bit stressful?" She arches an eyebrow at me. There's a smile on her face, but she wants to know more.

"Just a bit."

The courtyard is empty apart from us; I suspect she's chosen this place for the privacy it offers. And I suspect that she wants privacy because she wants to talk.

And I can only guess at what she wants to talk about.

"It's not your celebrity lawyer client, is it?" she suggests with a chuckle, and to be honest, he's not the one on my mind at the moment; it's paranoid, twitching White, who seems to be feeling ousted from the Gant group, with his claims that people are watching him and that he knows too much to stay alive. 

The antidepressants are going to take at least a couple of weeks to kick in, though.

"Partially," I say. "Yours aren't giving you too much grief?"

The elephant in the room that we're both pretending to ignore is Klavier Gavin. 

"No," she says with a smile. "Mine aren't murderers and rapists."

"Not all of mine are," I protest weakly, but I'm right: we have arsonists, con men, drug pushers and pimps, too. They're not  _all_  murderers and rapists.

"I was talking about your lawyer, actually." Her expression is smooth and clear, the face of a serious female psychiatrist who signs books and gives talks on chat shows. But there's a graveness in her voice that's serious and not quite so contained.

"A murderer, yes," I say, "But... if anything, it appears he's been victimised since arriving in prison."

She raises an eyebrow. "Oh," she says.

"Actually, I was going to ask about that," I continue-- "Do you know of any good resources specific to men in a custodial setting who are coming to terms with trauma?"

"If you find some, tell me," he says dryly. "I interned at that prison interstate, remember?-- and it's still an under-resourced area." She doesn't look enthralled. "I suppose it's very politically-incorrect and unfair of me to say it, but sometimes I can't help but feel that if you do the crime, you do the time." She's bitter and annoyed, and she shrugs carelessly.

"Hate to say it, but they're not sentenced to gang rape and assassination attempts."

"Most of yours were sentenced to death, weren't they?" 

"Most of them." I'm bothered by her irritation. "Still, that doesn't mean bleeding to death in a shower stall after three other guys have done whatever they want to you."

"That's too good for some of them," she says coldly.

Most people who don't work in the system don't understand it, and Lauryn, for all her understanding about the mentally ill and the neurotic and the irritating, still doesn't quite understand the criminally insane. Or the criminally messed up. I sit on a strange sort of crossroad, between being a conventional tax-paying citizen, being a prison worker, and being a psychiatrist-- and being a psychiatrist in a prison. It gives me a strange vantage point which few others understand. Lauryn comes close but not quite; she doesn't know the inmates in the manner I do, she doesn't get to see them as people.

"I disagree," I tell her with a casual smile. "If they all killed one another, I'd be out of business, wouldn't I?"

There's a laugh from her then, forced, like she's brushing over the unpleasantries. "I'm sorry," she says quietly. "I... just don't get how you can do it sometimes, especially when I know that some of your clients are the reason my clients are seeing me."

"So my clients keep you in business?" It's bleak, dark prison worker humour.

"That's not funny," she says. But she's smiling slightly.

"And I feel rotten about--" It hangs in the air and we both know what hasn't been mentioned; the upcoming mediation. 

"Don't," I say. I'm curious as all hell, and the curiosity is eating at me, twitching against me, desperate to be sated-- "You have client confidentiality to worry about."

"I still would have liked to have said  _something_." Her fingers drift to her left wrist and she plays with her charm bracelet subconsciously, her eyes still on mine. Normally she's aware of her movements; her professional life is all about that and maintaining presentation. But right now, she's not. "I feel like it's a good thing that they're doing it, but like you could have been rail-roaded a bit there..." a sigh. "But after what happened last time, we wanted some measures in place so that it's  _safe_."

I nod. She's right, but I somehow wish she could have talked to me about it, too. Unfair and unrealistic as that might be.

"At least he's agreed to it," she says. But she looks worried. "I know it's unfair, but I don't trust him."

I don't think Lauryn's expecting me to burst out laughing. "I was thinking the same thing about  _your_  client."

"Why would you think that?" She looks puzzled.

"Because he's bringing his lawyer with him. Because of who the lawyer is. Because of the fact that his conditions seem to suggest that he thinks that his brother was responsible for the last assault..."

"What if he  _was_?" Lauryn doesn't look as amused as I am.

"He was in solitary confinement."

"Wasn't he on the unit getting reintegrated?"

"Where did you hear that?"

"My client was asking around," she says. "As he has a right to."

" _Yes_ ," I say testily, "but he was fully supervised in the library. There is no way known he could have orchestrated something like that whilst under supervision."

Suddenly I'm aware that there's enough reason for doubt in what I'm saying. Because it's Kristoph Gavin. Because he's clever and opportunistic and scheming and patient and above all else,  _subtle_.  _Could_  he have planned an attack on Klavier?

It still seems unlikely, but possibly not impossible.

"If you say so," she says, "But if this setting makes my client feel more at ease, then..."

I raise an eyebrow. "I still want to know why he wants a mediation."

"I can't tell you that. My client has requested the utmost in privacy, especially given his celebrity status-- that's why he only wants you, his brother, and his lawyer in the meeting. He's worried about prison workers selling stories to the press."

"They would get fired for disrespecting confidentiality," I say weakly, but she's right: a tabloid offer for an exclusive story about Klavier Gavin's mental anguish could be two year's wages for some of them. 

"Like  _that_ 's going to be much of a threat," she says. "It'd be like a retirement package."

I sigh. "Any idea why he had to invite  _Wright_  to represent him?"

And that's when she looks positively surprised. "I think he felt it was making restitution with him since it was his brother who'd essentially destroyed his career and he'd been a part of it. Asking him to represent him was a sign of good faith, I suppose."

"Do you have any idea how my client might react to that?"

"No," she says. "Do  _you_?"

"Not at all, but I hope no one gets injured." I chuckle and the waitress arrives at our table, removing the carafe which contained pre-dinner drinking water, and handing us menus.

The subject of the Gavins is dropped. I manage to get lost in Lauryn's nameless descriptions of clients; her neurotic professionals and celebrities, her tragic case studies come to life and her busyness; book signings and TV appearances.

I relax into her engaging warmth, and realise she'd be a wonderful psychiatrist. I wonder how I seem to my clients, if I'm easy to trust and have a warm friendliness about me like she does, I wonder if they could listen to me as I do to her.

I'm so distracted that the packet of cigarettes in my pocket remains untouched throughout the evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suppose I should mention here that yes, the characters' names, in keeping with the canon source, are all puns of some description. The prison workers' are plays on my local area's suburbs, and the doctors' are plays on psychiatric facilities which have existed in my city. And the other inmates generally have the pun thing going on, too. Timothy Plan is a bit of a anomaly, but I came across the "name" years ago when reading a piece about video games under criticism from the Religious Wrong: linked to one particular site (which shellacked "Bully" because it had a bisexual protagonist) was the Timothy Plan, an organisation which would probably be horrified to see a gay porn star named after it. I simply _had_ to.


	7. Confrontation

My smoking habit hasn't died. 

I always swore I wouldn't smoke, that I'd grown out of that teenage, rebellious phase when I realised that I didn't really like the taste or the way it made my clothes smell-- but there is something comforting about having that firm, predictable thing between my fingers, inhaling the warmth and the smoke, knowing that it's occupying myself, giving myself headspace and time to myself.

I don't smoke on the unit-- just like we're an eco-friendly, recycling workplace, our environmental concern extends to only smoking in designated areas, which smell like decaying gym socks and chemicals. The prisoners can smoke there if they wish, and for the workers, it allows them time to build rapport; the simple pleasure of a cigarette somehow uniting them; free or not, guilty or not, educated or not-- it doesn't matter if they can both appreciate some sun-ripened tobacco and five minutes to themselves.

I still don't particularly like smoking, but I like the time out, and I need it. It's already been a stressful morning and it's only going to get worse; I can feel the tension, the terror, the _intangible_  nature of it lurking like fear-- and I still have yet to find a way to calm it or to reassure myself.

Smoking the cigarette at one thirty on the Wednesday afternoon in the carpark, I think I've finally understood why so many people who work in this industry smoke like chimneys.

The sky is cloudy, and there's a light wind in the air; it doesn't  _seem_  ominous as it did the other day when I was talking with Lily, but weather-based superstitions don't work here. Logic of any kind seldom does; I'd be a liar if I'd claimed that I'd never once contemplated the validity of my own profession; we’re here to contain and manage, not fix anyone.

Perhaps remembering the discussion about the Gavins I had with Lauryn has left me feeling cynical.

Or it might be the assessment session with Timothy Plan, who advised me that if he can get his hands on some blow, he's going to party like it's 1999, that Gavin reminds him of that androgynous prosecutor from court, and that he plans on seducing a couple of staff members to make his time here worthwhile.

I'm not sure if I should congratulate him on a positive outlook or be horrified by his naivete. Guiltily, I find myself agreeing with the workers that he's irritating and sleazy, and hope, with a sense of forboding-- that he's not another personality-disordered mess who needs therapy.

My morning involved seeing Ron deLite for his exit assessment-- once again, he seemed pleased to be out, and a little more broken and a lot more grateful to be back to his wife-- than he did last time I went through the process-- the recidivists, particularly the harmless ones-- like deLite-- are more a sadness than an irritation. There's a brief discussion with Parke because Waverley has seemed... unbalanced, Parke tells me, and then he wants advice on how to suggest that someone utilise their long-service leave.

I've turn into a workplace psychologist, it seems. I'm unimpressed with my new role.

  
I inhale on the cigarette, thinking about the morning, wondering how Gavin is going to react; in twenty minutes I have to be back on the unit and preparing myself to find out.

I walk amongst the cars; an  _unusual_  redness catches my eye. I get used to the cars, what my colleagues drive in; it's usually a hodge podge mix of old mazdas and volvos.

A shining red classic-- an Alfa Romeo GTV-- '99 model if I'm not mistaken-- is parked by the far end. 

I'm not really one for cars, but I'm not used to seeing vechicles like that around here; it's out of place-- everything from its age to its perfectly shining condition screams "outsider," and I want to have a closer look.

This is the car I'd be driving if I'd been a regular psychiatrist with a practice in the hills. This would have been my midlife crisis machine after Liz left and I realised I'd become bogged down in work and a job I couldn't help but take home with me. 

It's beautiful, and as I draw closer, it doesn't cease to be beautiful. I'm mesmerised to the point where I believe I'm alone, lost in admiring a stunning European car-- that I jump slightly when I see the window wind down and an irritated, pale face glaring at me.

It's Miles Edgeworth, the prematurely grey-haired prosecutor who is noteworthy for far more, apparently, than being Phoenix Wright's saving grace. Looking typically sour, he glares at me for a moment longer as I step back. "I'm sorry," I offer meekly. "I was just admiring your car."

He face softens with recognition. "You work here, don't you?" he asks. He looks down and sees my belt, with the duress alarm and radio and keys hooked onto it. "I believe I saw you last time when I was here."

There's a strange sort of unsteadiness in his voice, as though he really doesn't  _want_  to be here. 

"I think we crossed paths seeing-- Crescend, wasn't it, in the hospital wing. I'm the resident psychiatrist here."

He nods, smiling slightly with what appears to be recognition. "I'm glad he dropped the case. The last thing Wright needs is another lost cause to worry about."

I don't say anything, but nod-- recognition that I've heard him and understood. "Are you here with Wright again?" I ask.

It's strange talking to him once more. This is the man Gavin harbours hatred and jealousy towards-- it's odd trying to compare them. I find myself guiltily wondering if Gavin's suspicions about their sex life were correct; Edgeworth doesn't come across as a particularly physical type.

"I gave him a lift down here," he says. "I suspect he will want to talk on his way back to the office." Another pause. "I suspect he might  _need_  to talk." There's worry in his voice. "I know he took this on for his own reasons, but I sincerely wish he  _hadn't_."

"His own reasons?" 

"I know he was wanting to assist Klavier-- he's seen the man's guilt about what happened eight years ago, and he seems to need to reassure him that he doesn't have any hard feelings." He sighs. "He's  _like that_." There's a vague, tiny smile, and his face softens just a little, his cool grey eyes flickering away from mine for a moment. "He's  _always_  been like that."

I believe him when he speaks fondly of Wright. I believe there might be some understandable bias there, and I wonder of the side of Wright that Gavin has seen, and how he's going to feel when confronted by him again. 

"It's good of you to drive him down here and wait for him," I say neutrally.

"To be honest..." Something comes into his face then, concern, worry of some type. He tilts his head and doesn't quite look at me. "If I could have avoided it, I would have rather not arrived here," he admits.

I nod without saying anything.

"This place makes me feel strangely ill every time I come here-- but Wright's put himself through enough for me, so it's only fair that I return the favour."

He looks genuinely uncomfortable, like he's longing to distract himself. Peering into the car I notice a handheld game console on the passenger seat next to him, the screen displaying some sort of problem-solving completed midway.

I suspect he was trying to distract himself before I encountered him.

"Are you just going to wait out here?" I ask.

"Yes," he says. Then quickly-- "Am I not allowed to?"

"No-- nothing like that-- but if you'd prefer to go over to the visitor's section..."

"I'll be all right here," he says in a snap. Then correcting himself quickly-- "I'm sorry. As you might be aware, I have a number of experiences associated with this place which I'm still... getting used to."

I'm curious, but the obvious one was the execution of his mentor. I didn't know whether he witnessed it; I counselled Manfred von Karma until the time came; he was generally terse but even-tempered, unless someone mentioned Phoenix Wright, and he'd referred to Miles as though he was some kind of ungrateful, pathetic parasite.

"It's not what you think," he says quietly. There's mystery in his voice, and he brushes the bangs from his face. "There were occasions where work necessitated me arriving here and having to deal with men I'd helped put away."

I nod. It's only just occurred to me that Klavier Gavin will be in the same situation. I wonder how he's dealing with things down there.

"That's understandable," I tell him. "You have a tough job."

"It's rewarding to get to the truth, though," he says. "Which possibly makes it less tough than yours, doctor." He's smiling slightly. Warming to me? I'm unsure. He gives the impression of being both extremely guarded and fragile. 

"I try to get to the bottom of things, too," I say. "It's a... goal."

He sniffs, that perfect pale nose wrinkling in disbelief. "Are you working with Gavin personally?" he asks incredulously.

"Yes-- I am-- and I am not at liberty to talk about--"

"Good luck with getting to the truth there," he says coolly. "I've seen his damage first-hand."

I'm tempted to remind him that he was overseas when everything fell apart, apparently, that he'd seemingly made no effort to contact Wright and therefore that he wouldn't have seen the damage inflicted first-hand. I remember Gavin's fondness in recalling Phoenix Wright and hearing him talk about the fact that he probably did love him, the way he nurtured and looked after him. I wonder what Edgeworth makes of that, and yet I can't discuss it. And at the same time, I feel strangely defensive towards him.

"I really can't discuss my clients outside a professional setting," I tell him, backing away with one step. 

Edgeworth is furious. Just the mention of Gavin seems to be enough to put him in a bad mood, and I see cold grey eyes glaring at me,  _through_  me, as though I've just sworn at his mother.

"This isn't the first time I've arrived here as support for Wright," he says stiffly. "And should he be required for any further consultations, I'll be waiting for him as I am right now," he continues. "But having known and interacted with Kristoph Gavin and experienced his lack of remorse-- having seen his  _amusement_  at the destruction he's caused-- is enough to convince me that he's not a redeemable person."

"You don't need to try and convince me of anything," I tell him. I can see the clock on his dashboard moving closer to the hour of judgement. I gulp. My cigarette's long gone and I really have no excuse to be out here.

"I'm going to need to head down to the unit, Mr. Edgeworth," I tell him quietly. I take another step backwards. "Take care." It's such a vague, randomly kind statement, as impersonal as asking someone their opinion on the weather.

His intense and furious glare doesn't leave me. "You too, doctor," he says ominously. "I hope Klavier and Wright find whatever they were looking for."

It's an odd statement, but I don't think much of it as I head back onto the unit and through the security points. I'm nervous again, my cancer stick hasn't helped at all and it's long gone.

I wear the same steely-eyed look of terror as I think I saw on the man in the Alfa.

 

The secure vistors' room is soundproof, and unlike most of the other rooms, there are blinds encased between two double-glazed industrial-strength windows for privacy. 

They're drawn when I arrive to the visitors' section-- there are other visits happening right now; Atmey's talking to a man in a suit who looks like a lawyer from a B-grade movie, one of the Kitakis is talking to someone who appears to be a girlfriend. 

The visitors' section is near the walkway from the industrial areas and the workspaces, so every so often, random inmates will wander by either finishing up or heading to their workstations, and heads turn when they see that someone else has a visitor. People like knowing other people's business here; it makes them forget their own for awhile, I suppose. 

This is  _why_  privacy is a good idea. Since the attack on Klavier Gavin, prison regulations have tightened; under no circumstances are visits to be conducted anywhere besides the visitors' area now. It provides motivation, I suppose, to move people out of solitary if they're spending time there; we stopped visits up that end of the unit as well. 

I'm the last one in, and when I arrive-- Tona has left the door slightly open and when I glance in I can see the back of Gavin's head but nothing else in the room-- I apologise quickly for being late.

"We all good then?" Tona asks. He smiles uncomfortably and I take a seat next to Gavin. They're plastic chairs; not the most comfortable, and disturbingly lightweight-- I've seen them thrown across rooms and used to hit people-- but not heavy enough to break windows, and uncomfortable enough to make you sit up and pay attention.

"Everything's fine, Al," Gavin says breezily.

"Great. I'll stop by when you're done." He shuts the door behind him, and the lock clicks. 

And that's when I get a proper look at his visitors. 

They're sitting across from us, and Klavier looks every bit the rockstar still, dressed in purple and black and wearing so much jewelery that he probably set off the metal detectors at the door. The bruising on his face has either healed, or been covered with makeup. I can’t tell which.

Wright has an intense, serious expression on his face; his dark eyes are widened and defensive, as though he's only a snide comment away from screaming "Objection!" or throwing a punch. Once a lawyer, always a lawyer, he's back to the blue suit and fuchsia tie again, and his hair is spiked back as it was in his glory days.

I can feel the tension in the room already. The only one who doesn't look tense is Gavin, and that's because he's smiling slightly, but his arms are folded, and I get the distinct impression he's not pleased to be seeing them here. It must be confronting wearing prison greys when the other two men you knew as lawyers are looking like they stepped off a stage and out of a court room.

"So," I say. "For those of you who don't know me, I'm doctor--"

"We've met," Klavier says. Wright nods, obviously having remembered me from when I saw him with Edgeworth. 

It's like they want to hurry the hell out here.

"So we're here for... a meeting." I'm not used to doing mediations, and I wish I wasn't the only staff member here.

"I requested a mediation, Herr Doctor," Klavier says. There's an easiness in his voice but his body language is telling me another story.

"I understand that," I tell him. "And I'm here to act as a mediator today, to make sure we all get a chance to be heard and to air any issues..." 

It sounds so damned contrived. I can tell from the look on Wright's face that there's no coincidence that he's here, that he used Klavier's request for a lawyer to his own benefit.

"This room is soundproof, yes?" Gavin asks curiously. He's staring at the door. 

I nod, and continue. "All I ask is that we respect one another and allow one another to speak, and hopefully we can find some resolution..."

"Like hell we will." 

It's Wright who speaks, and his voice sounds almost subhuman, it's an angry growl which makes me jump in my seat.

"Mr. Wright, if you would..."

"It's all right, doctor," Gavin says, still wearing that innocent smile. His glance shifts to Wright and he looks thoroughly amused. "Mr. Wright," he says gently. "I would prefer it if you would not disrespect the good doctor. After all,  _he's_  not the one you're angry with... it's  _me_... isn't it?" He blinks nonchalantly. "I wasn't aware that you were arriving for a visit; perhaps if I'd known we could have shared some grape juice and a game of cards..."

Wright flinches in his seat and I see Klavier shoot him a warning look.

"I'd like to advise you all now that if anyone cannot keep their anger in check and the environment becomes threatening or dangerous, we will have to end the mediation abruptly," I offer as a warning. "That includes  _everyone_  involved with this meeting... does everyone understand?"

Everyone snaps back to attention and I get a mixed agreement-- "Certainly," " _Ja,"_ "Yes, doctor."

I'm not sure which direction to steer them in; I didn't like the direction they were headed in previously, and would be happier changing the subject and ceasing the petty arguing and posturing, but Klavier picks up the conversation.

"Who did you think I'd bring-- Justice?" he sneers. "You would have liked that, wouldn't you?" 

Gavin looks innocent, perfectly surprised. "I cannot say how I'd have reacted at seeing Justice here," he says coolly. "I wasn't expecting to see you, however." He smirks at Wright. "I thought you swore you'd never come back here after the last time." There's a vague threat in his words. 

"How are you, anyway?" he asks. "And how is the lovely Mr. Edgeworth?" 

"Mr. Gavin..." I warn softly.

"I'll thank you for leaving Miles out of this conversation," Wright says stiffly.

"Have things soured already?" Gavin asks casually. "Was he failing to live up to particular expectations of yours?" Another sweet smile.

"Fuck you." Wright isn't even trying to hide his rage. His face is reddening and he sits forward aggressively. 

"Mr. Wright..."

"Maybe he should have stayed at home and-- how shall I say this delicately?-- worked out some of his aggression before arriving here," Gavin offers sweetly.

"Mr. Gavin..."

"I'm just trying to be helpful, doctor." 

Now I'm glaring at him, and already wondering how our next appointment is going to be. "I'd prefer it if we stuck to--"

"Your help isn't required any more." Wright's voice is a hiss, and Klavier is curiously quiet, sitting next to him. I can see his knuckles whitening as he grips his elbows, his eyes staring at his brother with a kind of shell-shocked horror.

"My help has been more beneficial to some people than yours," Gavin snaps back. "Tell me-- how is my former assistant doing working at-- what, your Do Anything agency? My help would have seen him establishing himself as a legal force to be reckoned with, not following around some has-been--" 

"Mr. Gavin."

Both Wright and Gavin snap to attention and stare at me.

"I apologise, doctor," Gavin says. "It appears that I may have some issues of my own regarding my brother's choice of legal representation." He shoots a glare at the still-stunned Klavier who just stares back, hollow and nervous, a rabbit caught in the headlights.

There is silence for a moment. "I wish for your sake you were right," Wright says quietly. "That I was just dressed up to visit you-- but-- this has been re-sat the bar and had the charges of forged evidence struck from the record," he says. His voice is speeding and rising with every word and bubbling confidence. "If only you'd chosen a less complex case, Kristoph-- you might have just had me there for good." He fingers the small gold badge on his lapel subconsciously. Gavin looks unimpressed.

"Shall we move along then?" I ask, trying to sound upbeat; "Mr. Gavin--" I look at Klavier-- "May I call you Klavier since there are two of you in the room?"-- he nods-- "Perhaps you'd like to discuss a few things with your brother..."

Klavier's mouth opens and then shuts. His eyes narrow and, as though he's been rehearsing it, he speaks. "I know you set up what happened at my previous visit in here," he says in an undertone. "I don't know  _how_ , and I don't really know  _why_ , but I know you had something to do with it."

There's silence. I'm still not buying it, and I can see that Klavier has been wanting to confront his brother about it, that this was probably the sole intention of the visit, and that, from the non-surprised look on Wright's face that he's possibly expected as much too.

"I'd like to see some evidence if you're choosing to level such an accusation against me," Gavin says haughtily.

"I don't have any," Klavier mutters.

"Speculation doesn't work in a court of law and it won't work here," Gavin tells him in a patronising voice, as though talking down to a child. "Don't you remember anything I taught you,  _mein bruder_?"

"Klavier," I offer gently. "When you were assaulted in the hospital wing, your brother was in solitary confinement, only being released for a few supervised hours a day." Gavin nods in agreement with me. 

"Precisely," Gavin says. "What are you basing your assumptions on, Klavier?"

"The fact that you're vindictive and that you refuse to let anything go," Klavier says. "You spent and obsessive amount of time attempting to destroy Wright, using anything and anyone-- including your own assistant who you groomed to what you thought was perfection-- against him." He sighs. "I cannot put anything past you."

"Perhaps you are being a trifle paranoid," Gavin says. "After all, I was in solitary confinement--"

"Objection!" Wright stands up, assuming the voice and raising his arm slightly, leaning in towards Gavin as though he's about to point at him. As though he's forgotten he's not in court. From his chair, Klavier giggles nervously.

"The murder of Drew Misham, and the attempt on Vera Misham's life both occurred when you were also in solitary confinement."

"Sit down, please, Mr. Wright." 

He looks sheepish, and he returns to his seat. "I stand by my comment," he says quietly, glaring at Gavin.

"As you  _very well_  know,  _Mr. Wright_ \-- the circumstances in that case were very different to the ones involved now. I couldn't have preemptively set up the attack on Klavier in any form whatsoever-- unless you're going to claim that I have psychic abilities and therefore was able to foretell my own imprisonment--  _and do nothing about it_ , of course." He smiles again. I want to ask him to be quiet, but he's making sense.

" _Are_  you going to make such claims, Wright?"

He's glaring at him now. "No," he says after a moment's silence.

"Let's move on," I suggest nervously. "Klavier-- do you want to say anything to Kristoph? I understand that it's been a while since the two of you saw one another... and with your professional situation, knowing your brother is behind bars must be taking a toll on you in some manner..."

"It isn't," Klavier says stiffly. "I am grateful to the work of the police department and the department of public prosecutions and to Wright and Justice for doing what needed to be done."

Gavin grimaces, and then mutters something under his breath which sounds suspiciously like, "After everything I did for you..."

"Mr. Gavin-- if you wish to say something, please speak directly," I tell him. "The mediation isn't going to progress if you don't speak clearly..."

He shoots  _me_  a glare for a split second. "I apologise," he says insincerely, fingering the twist of hair at his shoulder. 

"Do you have something you wish to say to your brother?"

He looks at us all blankly. "Not really," he says, his voice smug again. "Though I'm happy to listen to any grievances he might have."

Klavier looks furious for a moment; his face tightens and he's no longer the pretty, outgoing rockstar who takes life in his stride; he's looking every bit as terrifying and determined as Wright does. Gavin merely smiles at him; and that's when the unexpected happens.

He shakes. A sort of shudder runs through him, and then he tilts his head upwards, avoiding eye contact with the rest of us; his voice is a wobble and he murmurs something under his breath.

"Klavier... I'm sorry-- but we were unable to hear you... if you could speak a little more clearly..."

I feel like I'm pushing him, and there's a heavy, dreadful feeling in the pit of my stomach which only worsens when I notice a wet, glistening line running down the side of his face. Over the years, I've seen men cry before; I've seen every emotion known to mankind. I've never seen such a poised effort to maintain composure and dignity, though, and I can tell Wright is affected, too, by the way he leans closer to him, the rage in his face turning to softened concern.

"Klavier?" asks Gavin sweetly. I suspect it's a subtle stab at him, but I'm not sure-- and that's the problem; what's sincere and what's not when it comes to his reactions? They're both performers, both equally gifted at projecting an image across to others-- but one brother does it for entertainment and sings kitsch pop songs with law and order puns and sexual ambiguity, and the other... has a different agenda.

Klavier's head jolts downwards, and he's still looking furious and toughened, despite the tears. His gaze is looking into Gavin as though he wishes his eyes had laser-like qualities.

"I said:  _haven't you hurt me enough already_?" he snarls. "When's it gonna stop, Kris?"

Wright leans forward in his chair, and Gavin addresses him instead. "Was  _this_  another of your little games, Wright?" he asks. "Revenge for... I don't know-- I can't even begin to fathom what goes on inside that spiky head of yours."

"This had nothing to do with me," he says. "But I'm sure it's got plenty to do with things I don't even  _know_  about."

"A bold statement," he says dismissively-- "You may wish to believe that I'm some kind of monster, Wright, but without any sort of evidence, your claims are nothing but that--  _claims_." He tilts his head again and looks unimpressed. "You're grabbing at straws now, aren't you? Just like you used to in court-- some argued that was genius-- I always found it kind of sloppy, to be honest-- as though you didn't even know what you were talking about, just like you don't  _now_."

In the verbal standoff, Klavier has been all but forgotten. His demeanour hasn't changed much; he looks even stiffer as the two speak to one another, and then a panicked look comes onto his face. He sniffles, his face moist with tears as Wright glances at a box of tissues on the small coffee table separating us. The table is bolted into the floor.

"You know what I mean, Kristoph," he says, his eyes still focussed on Gavin, as though if he breaks concentration he'll lose his nerve. a touch of softness comes into his voice. "Right up until that attack, I used to feel sorry for you, you know. I used to think that you only had my best interests at heart underneath everything."

"Why would you feel sorry for  _me_ , Klavier?" Gavin asks. His voice is challenging, as though he's  _daring_  him to answer. Klavier glares at him again, a look of  _you know_ clearly evident on his face amongst the anger and the tears.

"I never could figure out if you loved me or hated me," he says softly. "I wasn't sure; there was always some part of me that--"

Gavin's gaze hardens, and his face is reminiscent of Klavier's, minus any trace of softness. He doesn't say anything, but watches, unimpressed and silent, his jaw clenched and the muscles in his neck bubbling up furiously.

"--I wanted to feel like it wasn't you, that it was somehow me." 

"I don't know what you're talking about, Klavier," Gavin says dismissively. Wright focuses on him, then, the look on  _his_  face somehow suggesting that he  _knows_  he's lying. Like he can see something I can't, and I have absolutely no idea what it is. Maybe those legendary poker skills have given him an ability to read body language even I can't fathom.

"This isn't one of your little courtroom dramas," Gavin hisses at him.

"...but when I found out about what you did to Wright under the veil of being in a relationship with him... I knew it wasn't my fault-- it was  _you_ , Kristoph."

Wright jumps then, and a strange sort of look of recognition comes onto his face. 

"Whatever are you talking about?" Gavin asks him. He turns to me looking puzzled. "I do understand that Klavier was seeking therapy for some personal issues-- I did not know that paranoid delusions were amongst them..."

My heart is in my throat. I'm hoping that this is some sort of sick prank from Wright and Klavier, even though I'm well-aware that it can't be. I know those undertones, those vague suggestions of a horror people sometimes cannot put words to.

The only reason I'm looking at Gavin is because I'm horrified and fascinated at how composed and calm he is under such emotional accusations.

And then I see it when he shifts his hand across his lap.

" _I was nine years old, Kristoph_." 

The devil, a burn-like scar on his hand, grinning maniacally at me, like it's laughing at my naivete, at having been lead along for so long--

I want to retch. Klavier is sniffling, tears still running down his cheeks. "Why do you  _think_  I'm in therapy, Kristoph?" he hisses. "Because every time someone appears to do something nice for me, I second guess it. Because I spent years thinking it was perfectly acceptable to be ... _touched_... like  _that_  by my older brother. Because dealing with that has its own effects that you don't even realise until everything you've tried masking your own self-disgust and shame with falls down and sudden you're left with it and you realise that it's come close to destroying you."

I'm not looking at anyone; I feel as though I'm underwater, that I can't breathe, that everything around me is just a dull thud of noise rather than a pattern of speech or movement. The urge to be sick is seizing me, and I'm concentrating on  _not_  being sick more than anything else, more than their words or faces or-- 

"And you were the one who called Child Protective Services on  _me_!" It's a snap back to reality when Wright speaks up, a distraction from the subject.

Gavin looks startled and furious. The devil on his hand glows evilly, and he covers the back of his hand with his other.

"I always suspected it," Wright says, "Because I knew something was amiss when I talked about reporting the calls and finding out who was pestering me and then reporting them for breach of--."

"You assumed it was Edgeworth," Gavin says smugly. "That he was so jealous of your broken down existence and your cosy home with your adopted daughter that he'd go to any length just to harrass and hurt you." He chuckles. "Didn't you?" 

Klavier's comments have been conveniently brushed over, and I feel out of my depth, all of a sudden, like I'm on a carousel which I never noticed began whizzing around at frightening speeds because it happened so subtly.

Klavier looks relieved. Angry, but strangely relieved, as though he's reeling from what he's just spoken about, steadying himself and working out where to go next. He's not crying any more; he's trembling with a strange kind of energy.

I'm glad he's in therapy and I'm glad he's seeing Lauryn.

Wright looks as though he wants to throw punches. Or the chair he's sitting on.

"How  _is_  the malfunctioning Romeo?" he asks snidely. The devil's mark has gone, and he's eerily calm again. I stop looking at him and concentrate on Wright, telling myself that it's all about making sure Wright doesn't attempt to turn the situation violent.

The truth is, I don't want to be sick until I'm out of the room.

"There you go again," Wright says dryly. "Haven't you got something better to say, Kristoph? You said that last time."

There's a knock on the door, and I sigh with relief. We have moments left.

"T-that's our n-notice that our time is up," I say unsteadily. I'm trying for professionalism, gasping like a fish out of water for it.

"If we-- need more time..."

"I  _do_ ," Klavier says defiantly. I feel my eyes meeting his. He isn't crying any more. There's a stoic, determined note in his voice, like he's not going anywhere until he's sorted it out--

"We're unable to continue the visit beyond the hour allotted to us today, but if you wish for a later session..."

"There is still more to be said," Klavier says darkly. "And there is still more my brother needs to hear." He's looking at me, not at Gavin. "How does this time next week suit you, doctor?"

I can't say anything, but I know it's going to happen some way or another. He made this much happen, he was determined to say his piece, and somewhere I got lost amongst it all.

I nod dumbly.

The door opens, and Hamm is standing there.

"All done?" he asks.

" _Nein_ ," Klavier says with a hauntingly cheerful smile, "But we shall sort it out later, shan't we?" The hard look in his eyes suggests that heads will roll if he doesn't get his meeting next week.

"Good to hear," Hamm says dismissively, and motions to Gavin, who steps up and lightly walks over to him as though nothing has happened.

"No farewell hug for your brother?" he sneers as he passes Klavier.

Hamm sweeps the plastic wand around him and he is walked back onto the unit without even a  _verbal_  farewell being exchanged.

  
I walk with Wright and Klavier back to the car park. None of us say anything until we reach the section where Edgeworth was parked; Wright sees him step out of the car and rushes over to him, and Klavier turns to me, grim, shaking and nervous. "Thankyou, doctor," he says quietly. "I just needed to confront him."

I nod. I don't know what to say to him. In the distance I can see Wright and Edgeworth hugging for what feels like a long time but isn't; Klavier's shaking and he looks at me, deliberate and harsh. "I'll see you next week," he says in no uncertain terms.

I nod. "You take care," I tell him.

He offers a curt nod. "You too, doctor."

And then he's walking off to where ever he's parked, the red Alfa drives away in the distance, and I'm alone in the car park, still feeling overwhelmed and horrified by what has come to light.

One thought overwhelms everything else, though, as I place a cigarette to my lips and light it with a still-shaking hand: I can't keep doing this.

 

 

I think I'm dissociating. 

The cigarette filter touches my lips, but it just feels hard, an object, nothing discernible as a cigarette. I'm not sure if I inhale or not. 

I feel as though I've been standing in the one place for a very long time.

Parke finds me as he's leaving for the end of his shift. Maybe I've been standing there for fifteen minutes but it feels like a whole lot longer.

"Hey-- doc!" his cheerfulness goes over my head, I don't even recognise the sarcasm. I look at him blankly.

"What's wrong?" he asks. I see a hand delve into a pocket and he produces a packet of cigarettes. Offering it to me, I accept another without realising what I'm doing as he holds out the flame of a lighter and then lights his own.

I'm stunned, that's all. Horrified and stunned and  _numb_.

"The mediation wasn't a success?" he asks. The cheerfulness is gone from his voice. I can recognise that, but it only cuts so deep. I just nod. 

"I didn't hear any duress alarms go off," he says. "Can't have been that bad."

He inhales on his cigarette and leans back. "When you get back on the unit, I've got a job for you," he says.

I nod dumbly. I'll get to it. At some stage.

"There seems to have been a bit of an issue with Armando," he says. "Remember when he came in and we mediated with him and White?"

I nod. Medi-fucking-ation. I inhale on my cigarette and realise once again that I hate smoking. It tastes like very stale, very polluted air. But I don't make any effort to crush the cigarette out; I just hold it there and stare at Parke blankly.

"And both of them signed that contract stating they understood that they'd be spending the rest of their life-without-parole sentences in solitary if there was any violence from either of them?"

 _Gavin lied to me_.

"Well, we've got a problem. Waverley heard through Gant that there's a price on White's head and word around the unit has that Armando set it up."

 _Gavin didn't even_ hint _that he was doing anything untoward to his little brother._

"Isolation?" I ask.

"We can't isolate when nothing's happened, and Armando has flipped out saying that he's heard something about Plan wanting him dead."

 _Yes he did, you fucking bleeding heart moron. And you ignored it. Because he was nice. Because you trusted him._

"Isolate Plan?" My words are hollow and monotone. I'm not here, this is not happening; there is me and this space and a voice talking to me and a cigarette in my hand and...

 _You fell for the same thing everyone else did._ __

_You should have known better._

"Are you  _all right_?" Parke doesn't look at all impressed and I can hear it in his voice.

"Gavin's a ped," I say blankly.

Suddenly I snap back to reality unexpectedly when he replies. "Doesn't surprise me," he says. "Why does it surprise you?"

"There's never been anything on the record."

His face changes; he's sympathetic. Sympathetic enough to try and snap me back into shape. "We're used to this," he says. "How much goes on for these guys that we  _don't_  know about?" He sighs. "You know the sheer madness of this place better than anyone else does."

I nod miserably. "I don't think I can work with him any more." 

"I don't think you have much choice there, doc."

"I  _do_ ," I insist. "Upon the grounds that I don't think he requires my services because he's malingering and wasting my time. It's all been a headgame to him. If I'm not getting the truth from him in therapy, there's no point at all."

What if he's  _not_ , though?" Parke asks. "I mean, I'm no fan of the man myself-- hell, I saw what he did to Wellington and it sickened me-- and the whole taking a chunk out of Engarde thing didn't sit well with me, either-- but I think the guy's got more than a few screws loose and that denying him psychiatric treatment is going to cost us. Legally, if not anything else."

So that's what it's all about: the prison not getting sued. I sigh and drop what's left of my cigarette. 

"And anyway," he suggests, "Not trying to play Devil's Advocate here-- no pun intended-- what if that was all hearsay just to get under your skin?" 

"It wasn't," I say. "I just..."

 _Just what?_

Parke echoes my thoughts. "You know as well as I do what these guys are like," he says. "And there's always the odd one who catches you off-guard like Gavin just did." He sighs. "One in ten years ain't bad." There's a casual smile from him. "You know what to expect, you know?"

I feel a sense of failure. I got blindsided and ignored obvious signs I should have paid attention to. I let myself get steamrolled in the process of the mediation. 

"That mediation went terribly," I point out. "And that was my fault."

Parke looks at me thoughtfully. "Sometimes we work with the impossible," he says. "Sometimes miracle work is merely averting violence and if we can do that, we've done well enough."

He looks at me then, long and hard. His words hold no reassurance, and amongst the sense of betrayal and misery, I realise how very, very tired I'm feeling.

"You look like shit," he tells me in a slightly more blunt tone. "Go home, sleep the next few days off, chill the fuck out, forget about Gavin, and come back here and..."

" _Okay_." Maybe that sounded a bit more terse than it was meant to. "Just... see if we can get alternative psychiatric services to deal with Gavin?" I ask. "I... just can't right now."

Parke raises an eyebrow. "You've never asked for this before," he says thoughtfully, "So I'll see what I can do. I'll talk to deNong about getting everything sorted..."

It's strange how it's probably only mid-afternoon and I already feel like it should be after sunset.

"Thankyou," I say in monotone... "I appreciate it." I offer him a weak smile.

"Take care of yourself, doc," he says affably. "We've gotten used to you 'round these parts."

I smile at him again, and decide to take his advice. Maybe I need some space away from the prison; more than a few five minute spots in the carpark with a cigarette, something tangible. Maybe I need some time out and a good psychiatrist myself.

  
I don't even go back to my office or return my equipment; I watch him head to his car, and I head to my own.

 

Lauryn and I sit at the small table, looking at one another uncomfortably. How we've arrived here is relatively simple; I arrived home, I opened a bottle of whiskey, poured myself a glass, then realised that drinking every time I have a setback of some kind is a bad pattern to get into.

I checked my answering machine. Lauryn had called. Evidently, what happened at the mediation got back to her somehow, and she's concerned enough to talk to me.

We agreed on dinner.

"Is this a professional discussion or a personal one?" she asks sardonically after a period of silence, "Because--"

"We need to talk about this, don't we?" 

She nods. "If it's a professional discussion, we'd be better off doing it in private-- but-- if it's personal, we"

"Can't name names." I say with a nod. I'm staring at her, aghast; the moment I stepped into the car, I tried to forget what I'd heard and the reaction; I'd concentrated on other things, on having a break, on not having to think about the mess with Gavin for a while. I'd avoided thinking about it; I'd thought about minor, distracting details; about Engarde, about what  _else_  I didn't know about everyone else I'd seen. I thought about the White/Armando relations breaking down, and what might have caused them to.

The radio had provided distraction in the form of a news report. For the last three weeks, a nearby suburb had been terrified by a serial child sex offender, and this afternoon, he was captured and awaiting trial. 

It made me flinch for a moment, but the thought wasn't to do with Gavin. It was to do with the notion that if he was convicted and sent to the prison, I'd probably be dealing with another one.

  
"You look exhausted," Lauryn says gently. 

I nod. "I'm taking an indefinite amount of leave," I tell her glumly. "This afternoon was..."

It's the first time I've had to acknowledge it. And even now I'm being vague.

"I suppose you weren't aware of it," she says. "And I can  _guess_  what  _it_  was." The look on her face says she  _knows_. "I always said I didn't know how you could work there."

"It wasn't that I haven't dealt with that sort of thing before," I tell her; "I've dealt with liars and mentions of crimes which haven't been discovered by the authorities... it's more that it was  _him_."

She raises an eyebrow and sips her water. "You knew what he did to get there, though," she says.

"But the way he spoke about his brother was..."

 _What? It wasn't suggestive?_  Remembering the way my skin crawled after his request for a conjugal visit suggests that I damn well knew what he was suggesting, I just didn't want to see it.

"I know about the charisma and the facade," she says. "We've talked about that a lot at my end of things, too." There's a sigh from her. "I've dealt with people like him before: a man cleared of abuse charges against his ex-wife and children-- he was so adamant that he didn't do anything that I believed him and felt sorry for him."

 _Right up until he shot them all in front of his mother-in-law when they were trying to breach a custody agreement and flee interstate._

"I remember that one," I say gravely. "You just don't think that it's going to happen to  _you_ , do you?"

"I took a year off after that, if you remember," she says, "That was when I started getting serious about the self-help books I was writing. I didn't leave the practice for career expansion, but for escape... I needed to."

We're interrupted by a waiter who takes our orders and then hurries off. "What are you going to do?" she asks. "Have you got some sort of contingency plan available?"

"I've asked to drop that particular client," I tell her. "The manager seems to be accepting of that."

Her mouth hangs open. "I can understand that," she says slowly, "But... you haven't done that before, have you?"

"No." There's a slight smile from me. "Even the manager noted that when I asked."

"That's... extreme." A bothered look crosses her face. "You've dealt with harder men than that, before... and yet..."

"I  _know_." I'm getting frustrated. "It's one thing to know something upfront and it's another to be horribly surprised like that."

"Everyone has their secrets," she says. "And I suppose, in a place like your work, that's all most of those men have."

"I still don't think I can work with him any more," I say. "He needs someone more capable of just seeing him as another body, a prison number..."

"Don't talk like that," Lauryn says softly. "You went into that line of work because you  _didn't_  want to think like that."

"Maybe I'd started to and never noticed it and that's why I made an exception for him," I murmur.

And that's what's at the heart of it, the uncomfortable sense that maybe I never was suited to this line of work and this workplace.

"Maybe it's time to get out of it," I tell her softly. "Maybe my expiry date's gone and I can't do anything else."

"I think we all tell ourselves that after long enough," she says. "But you always were so... committed. You always did care, and did see your lot as human beings." She chuckles softly. "I'm not trying to influence you, by the way, just..."

"I know: I love my work."

"You've put so much of yourself into your work." There's a smile from her, vague and slight, and she's probably thinking what I am."

"I let my marriage and my relationship with my daughter go down the drain for my work," I tell her. I'm smiling, too, it's bitter and vaguely amused. "And most of them despise me."

"Do you think he did?" she asks.

"Probably. Most likely I was just an amusement to him."

I haven't told her much about him, I realise then. We try not to talk about our clients, but the overlap is surreal, and she's the only person outside work who I  _can_  talk to.

"Maybe that's the case," she says. "But maybe he could genuinely trust you." She looks bothered. "If he's done what he has, wouldn't that suggest some violation of trust in the last for him?"

"I suspected as much," I tell her, "But he hasn't had any problems; he's unbothered by anything. No family issues, really, no trauma, no...  _anything_."

"You make him sound interesting."

"He was until..." I pause. "How did you find out about this afternoon, anyway?"

"My client rang to talk about it afterwards."

I nod. 

"He said he didn't know about it either until they talked about it in the car on the way home."

"I thought they arrived there sep--  _what_?"

She smiles slightly. Suddenly, the realisation that we're talking about two different clients has occurred to me. 

"I thought you meant the  _sibling_."

"No," she says, "I mean someone you probably don't know who's only incidentally connected to the place."

"I think I know him," I tell her.

"He hasn't done time before," she says, confused. 

"I've seen him," I say. "I think I know who you mean."

She smiles. "I told you I get the lawyers," she says. "Those ones are two of several."

I can't help but smile slightly. This profession gives you a strange sense of humour.

"And I've got one too many," I tell her. 

* * *

It's close to midnight when I get home, and it's there where I'm left with the darkness-- both proverbial and otherwise-- and my own thoughts.

Was Lauryn  _right_? Did he trust me-- would having talked about it been risky for him-- was he--  _ashamed_?

I hate myself for wanting the answer to that question, just as I hate myself for getting online and looking at the careers ads. A psychology lecturer is required at Ivy U. I could do the job with my eyes closed, dazzling a bunch of bright-eyed students with tales from the past. They need a psychiatrist at the forensic hospital not far from the prison. I could apply for a job there.

But something stops me; I can only wallow in self-pity for so long, and the fact that I'm so bothered by one client annoys me. Leaving ten years of service in a job that I was made for, and which I'm sometimes quite good at-- because of one lying, manipulative, and deeply troubled sadist-- is utterly ridiculous. If he were a colleague, I wouldn't even consider it-- and what I don't know about  _them_  would probably be somewhat horrifying.

I shut down the computer and go to bed; whenever sleep appears on its way, I find myself oscillating between thoughts of Klavier Gavin, of Kristoph Gavin and his loopholes and half-truths, and then, of Lauryn.

I dream that I'm locked in a cell and I can hear the panicked screams of men around me, terrified and frantic.

  
But when I wake up, I'm already wondering what I've missed.

 

 

It's amazing how much can change within the walls of a prison in three days.

Time is a paradox; it either flies by and a world of changes happen in a matter of minutes-- or it creeps on slowly like the day will never come to an end. The staff feel it as much as the inmates-- rivalries are formed, friends turned into foes, systematic changes overhaul everything, a new inmate changes the structure of the place.

  
I'm back in my office because Parke begged me to come back. Of course, he didn't  _beg_ , the notion of getting Gavin reassigned has been dangled over my head like the sword of Damocles; I'm not stupid enough to assume that the sympathy will be infinite; eventually I've got to come back to work, and I'd prefer to not have Gavin on my caseload when I do.

  
"We've got problems," he said in that deadpan, worried manner. 

"What?" I was waiting to hear that Gavin has lost it and killed someone, that White and Armando have been left in a room together, or that more drugs have arrived.

"There's a new guy needing medication." 

That doesn't sound like much of a problem.

"So?" I'd asked. "Didn't he come in with a script?" 

"Nope-- and he's a code black."

My heart stops there. It's the sex offender from the news report.

"I'll be in this morning," I reassured him, thinking that one more day away from the place would have sent me insane.

  
On my desk are two reports: one for the new inmate's assessment and list of operatives for dealing with him which is as long as my arm; another on White, who has requested regular sessions and to be moved to protective custody.

Parke appears in my office only moments after I've discovered the paperwork. I haven't even reached my email yet.

"I take it it's been busy while I've been out," I say grimly.

"That's one way of putting it," Parke says, sitting down in front of my desk. "You've seen the notes on Callander, right?" 

"I skimmed them."

"We've got one giant trainwreck waiting to happen," he mutters. "He belongs in the psych ward... but they're saying he poses too much of a security risk, so we've got him. Which means keeping an eye on him, keeping him drugged, and keeping undesirable types away from him."

"That means solitary, right?" I crack a smile.

"I wish. Until he does something-- and I know his true colours are going to come through at some point-- we can't even isolate him. And he's behaving himself right now."

"He's the guy on the news, right?"

"Yep. And the courts have issued a suppression on the severity of his offences getting out to the general population. The media knows he kidnapped and indecently assaulted three kids. They don't know the rest of it, and there's fear for his safety, so..."

He stops. "He's gonna make Gavin look like a walk in the park. While you're holding hands with a sex-starved supermodel."

I cringe at the crude description and the idea of just how bad this Callander might be.

"What do  _we_  know?" I ask tentatively.

"Probably not the full story," he says. "The police found a bunch of videos in his apartment-- seems he's got a taste for rape porn and extremely violent and degrading sex acts. He's no stranger to the justice system-- a few minors for indecent exposure and loitering-- and few for petty crimes; break and enters, burgs, stuff like that."

I nod. 

"He was on meds-- something meant to decrease his sex drive-- which he takes on and off, too. Apparently he hears voices but no one's sure if he's making it up or if it's the real deal."

Wonderful. 

"So what do I do with him?" 

"Get him back on his meds, I guess, until everything goes kaboom."

"That's optimistic."

Parke shrugs. "We shouldn't have gotten him."

I agree with that much, but the idea of waiting  _until everything goes kaboom_  doesn't appeal to me. But the idea of trying to convince Parke of that is ridiculous.

Parke notices my silence. "Welcome back," he says warmly.

I raise an eyebrow and don't say anything, and my eyes fall to the reports on the table. "What's happened with White?"

"He's lost it," Parke says. "There's been some sort of stirring amongst the Gant circle since Plan sort of got taken under their wing there, and White now believes he's being persecuted."

"Maybe he's not far from the truth," I suggest. "He was the blackmailer..."

“Yeah, but he was Gant's right-hand man. Now things seem to have soured and he's sort of  _around_  but saying he's scared of them. He thinks Gant's out to get him and they're going to use Armando to do it."

"And Armando?"

"Thinks White's out to get him and that he's trying to blame Gant for setting it up."

"That doesn't make sense." I'm rubbing my chin. "White and Armando did that mediation and signed those contracts about staying away from one another when Armando was brought in. Why would either of them default from that?"

"Maybe one has a power base he didn't have before?" Parke prompts.

"You think Plan has gotten in Gant's ear about killing White since he and Armando are room mates now?"

"Precisely."

" _Great_."

"We need to nip this in the bud before it turns," Parke tells me. "And we need to get White in here post-haste."

I nod, and flick through my appointment diary. 

"I could get him in tomorrow," I tell him-- "if I could cancel one regular appointment I usually have..."

"Gavin, isn't it?" he asks.

I nod. "How's he been, anyway?"

"There was an incident the other morning where he was asked to keep his private life  _private_ , if you get my gist-- I'm pretty sure he was just baiting Waverley--"

"How?" I ask, my throat drying. "If he was talking about what he was doing when he--"

Parke looks at me. "That's the other thing," he says. "We're going to need a report on the mediation and what happened." His voice drops down to something sympathetic. "I know it went to shit, but we need something to explain why, and what the hell was going on with Gavin. I mean, what you said has me wondering if this has to go back to the police and he needs to go back to court..."

"It was his brother," I say weakly. "In all the time I've been working with him, he hasn't mentioned any sexual preference towards children; he hasn't mentioned children  _period_ \-- to my knowledge, the only victim has been his brother."

Parke's face goes blank, and his eyes widen. "Klavier Gavin?" he asks. "The rock star?"

"The one and only."

"Shit."

"Yeah." I still feel ill talking about it. "I wouldn't be  _surprised_  if there were others," ( _nothing_  will surprise me any more) --"but unless Klavier wishes to have him charged-- and that's going to be difficult enough as it is given that it was so long ago-- there's nothing I can do about it. My recommendation is that the next worker to deal with Gavin be made aware of everything and he be referred to a sex offender's program."

I'm surprised at how rational and distanced I sound about it. Gavin, I'm telling myself, is no longer my client.

Parke nods.

" _Have_  you found a new worker for him yet?" I ask tentatively. Parke's his caseworker... he should  _know_.

"Not yet," he says.

I sigh. "We're working on it, though," he assures me-- "We've just been a bit preoccupied with a few more immediate psychiatric issues. We need the assessment with Callander sorted ASAP and the meds put through for him quickly as possible after that, and... I need you to look at the guidelines on him. We need to find somewhere for him to work, too."

"Maybe I'll have a better idea when I meet him."

"Maybe." Parke doesn't sound impressed. "He's not a charmer like Gavin, though."

"Where's he sleeping?"

"He's in with Banks right now," he tells me.

Banks has unofficially replaced Ruce as the resident old guy on the unit. A relatively harmless type with a bad hip and arthritis, his emphysema gives him trouble talking so he usually shuts up and stays out of everyone's way. No one bothers him because no one can be bothered. 

"Who was in there previously?"

"A stoner called Dowd..."

"Why do I know the name?"

"We moved him back to D wing. He was the smartarse who legally changed his name to Cracked when he was loaded."

I nod. "I've heard the story at least."

"He wasn't a bad kid," he says. "And he didn't belong in with these clowns, so we moved him back to his natural habitat."

With his drug buddies.

I sigh. This feels like the first conversation I've had with Parke in ages which hasn't been based around Gavin.

Now I've got something worse.

"So when do I meet--" I look at the notes-- "Julien Callander?"


	8. Blackmail

Callander is a twitchy, baby-faced man in his mid-twenties, and he's terrified.

  
He babbles at me throughout the assessment period, he's scared the other inmates are going to find out why he's in, he knows about the prison hierarchy, how people who harm children are at the bottom of the pecking order, he's scared of the drug users, he's scared of everyone bigger than him, of everyone who's been there longer than him, he wants his meds, he wants to go to hospital, he wants out, out, out...

He's not getting out for at least another forty years, so I'm potentially dealing with him until I retire.

And I hate to admit it to myself, but I don't like him; I shouldn't  _care_  whether I like him or not, but he's the type of person I can seeing rubbing  _everyone_  the wrong way, and five minutes with him is already too many.

There's an honesty about him, though, which makes him easier to contemplate dealing with than Gavin. Unlike Gavin, he doesn't want to discuss more than his immediate fears, his medication, and his history. There are no subtle mind games, he makes no effort to groom me or lure me in; it's difficult to imagine him as a sexual predator winning over children when he's this pathetic, quivering mess right now.

Parke was probably correct about him not showing his true colours.

We discuss his medication; he's happy to be medicated, he wants to stop "the bad things," as he puts it, he's overly polite and twitchy and there's a simple, sad sort of creepiness about him.

As he's leaving my office, I am more afraid  _for_  him than I am  _of_  him. 

* * *

I spend the next couple of hours typing up reports. Callander's assessment needs filling out, then there's the unfilled report which needed to be submitted earlier from the failed mediation. I've been forced into thinking about Gavin again, and I'm making every effort to keep my thoughts directed to the task at hand. 

 _Is this my fault?_  I find myself wondering. The give-'em-an-inch-and-they'll-take-a-mile mentality has never worked for me, even here. The days of successful activity programs haven't been forgotten; for most of the inmates, positive interactions boost confidence, and confidence reduces fear. And with the right supports in place for the inmates with psychiatric illneses, these things contribute to a better environment... it's such a cliched line, one that most people who work here stop believing eventually.

Am I about to stop believing it?

I type my summary of the monumental failure which was the mediation, and already I'm hoping that Parke has set up my replacement to take over from me. Gavin will have a new worker who will be perfectly neutral, who won't be shocked by any ugliness revealed, and who'll be able to run the mediation effectively.

I contemplate having failed him. All my pride in his successes; his reintegration back into gen pop, his mostly excellent work in the library-- it feels hollow. Because I made it personal: those were his successes, not mine.  _I_  didn't do more than make suggestions, and he followed them.

By the time I've finished and emailled a copy to Parke, I decide that my need for a break from the screen and a stretch of my legs is in order. I don't have any appointments scheduled; I have paperwork to review and sign in the afternoon, a couple of clients to see, a meeting with the other psych workers and...

I'm lost in thought as I walk down the stairs and towards the end of the unit. I don't really look up at the procession of inmates returning from work placements, the West End guys coming back from inmate services and furniture construction. 

I don't think that Hamm and Towne notice, either, when one of them deviates from the line and I feel a hand on my shoulder, cool, long fingers brushing over my shirt for less than a second.

I jump. I'm not used to people touching me unexpectedly. Working in a prison for any length of time makes you cautious of touch that you don't expect. Fight or flight reaction kicks in when you've seen riots, all manner of assaults and in general, the worst human beings can do to one another.

In my panic, I don't consider  _who_  might be doing the touching.

"Hello, doctor." Kristoph Gavin's voice is a purr and he walks alongside me as though everything is perfectly ordinary. "I feel like I haven't seen you for awhile and just thought I'd offer my salutations."

I swear, an under-my-breath hiss, and hear footsteps running towards us.

"Gavin!" Hamm yells in the distance, "Let's  _go_."

"I was just saying hello to an acquaintance."

"You can do that later," Hamm calls out. 

"Not really," Gavin says at regular volume, eyes on mine. "Because he's filled my appointment with someone  _else_." His tone is clearly furious, he sounds like a jilted lover or a dumped best friend.

"Gavin! Next warning's gonna hurt!" It's Towne, slightly sharper and more aggressive, and Gavin moves away from me and back into the line.

I'm standing there, shaking slightly as the line continues on. Someone's told him about tomorrow, I assume, that he's not to be seeing me, that he can work in the library for an extra hour instead.

I wonder if they've told him that he won't be seeing me again.

I watch him walk on with the others, his face cold and hard, another face in the crowd now, no longer a client of mine.

Maybe I should have admitted it to myself initially: I'll miss him.

 

 

White isn't the same man who was brought in. The White of yesteryear was smug and glamorous, he complained about the food and the way the cheap prison issue shampoo smelled, he disliked having to share a room, and he tried making a case for requiring conjugal visits with his "special ladies." The special ladies turned out to be women who all worked at the same escort agency, and when he was denied his request, he cried discrimination because there were, apparently, plenty of opportunities abound for non-heterosexual men to get laid whilst doing time.

Timothy Plan reminded me of the untarnished Redd White. White had strolled in as though prison was a huge joke, and when the reality settled in, he grew annoyed and depressed, the day-to-day drudgery eating away at him as it does to most of them. Most of  _us_ , I think, considering the staff in the equation, many who've been here for longer than some of the inmates.

  
In his former life, White was a man of hedonism and excess. Wild parties, yacht trips, beautiful women, imported  _everything_ , sparkling, tastelessly enormous diamonds adorning his jewellery, enough drugs to put a gangster's children through the best private schools and college-- and art. His house in the city boasted a collection in the millions, always being added to-- and his narcissistic tendencies meant he was liable to pluck some kid still in art school and commission them to create likenesses of him in some form or another. 

  
The Redd White staring at me now is a pale shadow of the initial admission. Gone is the solarium-glowed skin and the sparkles-- the figurative sparkle in his eyes has dulled as well. The once garishly lavender hair-- something only a rich eccentric could get away with-- has greyed, his face is drawn and haggard, at fifty, he looks closer to seventy. The prison life has reshaped his frame; he's  _skinny_  and yet floppy. And he's miserable and delusional.

Officially, the delusions started happening only recently, leading me to suspect that finally his own demons and years of drug use had finally caught up with him; he's gone downhill and rapidly. The only thing to affect my thoughts on that and shift them is Parke's concern about Armando: White made the very deliberate mistake of murdering Armando's former girlfriend. Years down the track, Armando is serving time for a murder of his own, and generalised human incompetence has seen them on the same unit, on-and-off, for several years.

For the most part, it has been peaceful; Armando's been a loner, White's always been in with the Gant circle, and both seemed to sign contracts easily enough following a mediation and some conditions being outlaid about repercussions for any slights towards one another.

In the back of my mind, I always suspected that Armando was biding his time and waiting for White's protection to fall away from him, but it appears that my prediction was wrong: something-- or some _one_  has upset the balance, and White now sits in front of my desk, quivering, looking around nervously.

"I'm going to die," he says. "I'm fully aware that my days here are numbered."

I'm tempted to witheringly point out that we're  _all_  going to die, and the majority of the inmate population is going to die in here, but it's the kind of joke someone in panic wouldn't find amusing. Gavin would have laughed dryly and come back with a smartass remark, even if he was truly scared for his own safety.

"What makes you say that, Mr. White?" I look down at his file. "Do you think the new meds are reacting adversely...?"

He's been on and off antidepressants for the last twelve months; several varieties, something works for a little while then it has side effects, he's weaned off them and tried on something else. He's been on tratalopram for just over a week now.

"Because you haven't been on them for two weeks yet, and we know they usually don't start working until--"

"It isn't my medication," he says darkly. "There's a price on my head and there's nothing I can  _do_  about it."

"Why do you believe that?" I ask patiently.

"I'm still getting the messages in the books," he says. "And then there was that most repulsive incident involving the decapitated rodent which someone had delivered to my personage."

He still speaks in a long-winded manner as he did when he arrived here, but the spark in his voice has gone and the length and ridiculousness of his words has faded.

He's been talking about the messages in the library books for awhile, but literature always has its messages and symbolism. And when you're bored and depressed and feel you have little meaning in your life, you'll find it anywhere. He's never spoken about the messages in specifics; just that they're there, written for him specifically, that they're telling him he's a rat who has enemies.

The rodent delivery is something new, though.

"Someone delivered a... dead rat to you?" I ask.

"This morning when the mail was handed out after breakfast, I became aware of a package which had been sent to me. Suspecting it might have been--" and he pauses, likely suggesting he was hoping to receive contraband-- pornography, most likely-- "An item I was most looking forward to receiving-- I returned to my room only to be confronted by a most repugnant odor and what appeared to have once been a live rat." His face scrunches up and his wrinkles become even more defined. "It was particularly unpleasant, I must say."

"I can imagine it was."

"The appearance of the rat was not a delusion or a side-effect of my medication," he says with irritated determination. "Officer Denham removed it to be disposed of once he was notified of the situation in my hands, and I requested disinfectant." He eyes narrow. "It's on the record, doctor."

I nod, starting to feel like maybe White's another of my failings; that perhaps he was right all along and I was too busy being caught up in other dramas to give White significant attention.

"This seems connected, doesn't it?" I ask-- "the mention of rats in the books-- and now this..." I lean in towards him slightly, hopefully convincing him that I'm on his side-- or trustworthy at least. "Who do you believe is behind it?"

"Damon Gant," he tells me in no uncertain terms. "But I believe he's got his tentacles scattered far and wide, as he usually does." There's a sudden animation in his face. "I believe they've most recently crawled into the pornographic film star, Mr. Timothy Plan." 

I raise an eyebrow. "That's a... change," I suggest. 

White stares at me, puzzled, for a moment, and then begins laughing. The laugh is a wild cackle, demented and positively crazy; for a moment there, I believe every single thing he's done in the session is delusional. He then falls still and silent, but there's an expression of amusement on his face.

"You really have no idea," he says condescendingly. "And look at you, wading through the dregs of society, the lost and fallen and terminally decaying-- you think you _understand_  us, don't you, doctor? All too easily we're drugged or labelled, when regular old-fashioned human hatred and in-fighting might just be the problem all along." He tries to flash a smile; it comes across as weak and sardonic rather than thoroughly amused. 

"What do you mean?" I ask him.

"I mean, Gant and his crowd; his toadies, his crew, his  _homeboys_ \-- he's been running this place since Manfred was sent to the chair and the staff who aren't behind him are too ignorant to realise it." He leans in towards me. "And yes, doctor, that includes  _you_."

"I thought the two of you got along," I say evenly. Despite having information suggesting otherwise, I'm not going to tell him what the staff think. White is condescending: if I appeal to his desire to inform, to show off his knowledge, he might inadvertently be the rat he feels he's being accused of being.

"So is it Gant you have a problem with or his associates?"

"The man himself can be excellent, intelligent company," he says. "But he has certain  _interests_  which I can neither partake in nor find considerable enthusiasm for."

I raise an eyebrow again. "Oh?" I ask.

"Surely you know of his sexual proclivities?" He asks to my blank stare. "Or his sexual preferences, at least, to which I would argue he has  _none_ \-- he appears to have preference for nothing, but to willingly engage in anything." He smirks at me. A sadistic side of me which I didn't know I had wants to see what would happen if he and Stickler shared a room together.

"Mr. White," I say gently, "We're not here to discuss other inmates."

He laughs again. "This is the most probable reason for why you are so grotesquely underinformed about what the prisoners partake in behind these walls."

"Well what would you like to say about Gant?" I ask him.

He clears his throat and cracks his knuckles, looking at them as though mourning the diamonds which used to adorn his fingers. And then he looks up at me. "What you are about to hear won't be pleasant," he says. "And I suspect it might just lead to further criminal charges being laid against people here."

I don't like the way he says "people" and not "inmates," but I pretend to ignore it. Perhaps he thinks I'm on the side of the workers, the  _system_  and that I'll deny realities where their behaviour has been questionable in favour of writing damning reports about the inmates.

"What sort of charges?" I ask him.

"Corruption for one-- assault for another, racketeering-- is that a charge?-- amongst others." He sounds smug and blase. The blackmailling conman who made his fortune on dirty secrets has emerged-- he has information he knows I  _don't know about_  and that he knows I want. Perhaps if I let him keep talking, he'll slip up. It's unlikely, but a possibility.

"As I'm sure you're aware, before Manfred von Karma arrived here, this organisation was not centralised."

I'm confused. It was. The prison has always been run and operated out of this building. Clearly the expression on my face gives my lack of understanding away.

"I'm not talking about the  _workplace_ ," he says. "I'm referring, in fact, to the prisoners themselves."

I nod. Manfred von Karma, in combination with Gant, brought order to the prison. Prior to that the gangs vied for dominance, there were more brawls and there was the riot, drug use was rampant-- no one group held the axis of power for very long before being toppled by another group.

"Up until that point, Gant and I were associates-- we knew one another from the outside, we'd had dealings together. He wasn't a close friend..." There's a thoughtful look on his face and I open my mouth.

"You weren't planning on blackmailling Gant, were you?" I ask quietly.

"Oh, I would never have called it that," he says blithely, "But Gant and I did have a professional working relationship prior to us meeting up in here." He's smiling again. "I was a powerful man in my former world," he says. "Some would argue that I am in here, additionally."

 _Some who are delusional_ , I think, given that he's scared of Gant and now Armando.  _Some who are still clinging helplessly to old delusions of grandeur from times when they were easier to believe in, and who lack other kinds of human connection or pride-- or worthwhile memories-- of a life lived before incarceration._

It's then that I realise I don't have a very good poker face. 

"I have information, yes, acquired with the help of Gant-- and others-- on just about everyone in this facility." There's a maddening smile from him. "But I'm not supposed to discuss their affairs, am I?" he asks.

I naturally want to know what he knows about me, to test his theory and see just how accurate he is. But I don't want to show fear or weakness, I don't want this to become another push-and-pull game of manipulation. 

"Much of this information was gathered long before I arrived here," he says. "In addition to having efficient and trustworthy staff, I also happen to have an exceptional memory and stupendous ability for recollection."

I nod again. 

"As it was well-documented by the press when I was incarcerated here, Bluecorp's information pool extended well into the upper eschelons of society. I had information on the police, on members of Congress, on top doctors, lawyers... everyone. All of it stored and gaining interest, or just waiting to make an appearance at the right moment."

"And you had information on Gant?" I ask.

"Yes," he says. "Beneath the happy-go-lucky swimming enthusiast, there is a man not to be trifled with. A Machiavellian mind encased in the body of a benign extroverted eccentric. A monster calling itself a people person. Damon Gant was a top-notch client of Bluecorp's," he says with a smirk. Then his face pales.

"And he's always despised me for it."

"Wait." I cut him off. "If he  _despised_  you, then why did the two of you ask to share a room when Engarde was moved?"

"Because it was logical," he says with a casual shrug. "And because his company is much better now that Manfred is no longer with us."

He looks like he wants to confess something; his eyes widen a bit, and there's a twitch in his chin, and oddly enough, there's a glimmer of the previously handsome Redd White shining through. "Speaking  _of_  Manfred von Karma..."

I'm curious, but my professionalism wins out over wanting to see someone else's dirty laundry aired. "But... he despises you?"

"Despising someone doesn't mean you cannot enjoy their company," he says. "Just because someone might be plotting your downfall or blackmailing you or treating you horrendously for  _some_  of the time, it doesn't mean their presence has to be unenjoyable and that they cannot provide even the slightest level of amusement."

"Has Gant already  _done_  something to you?" I feel that quaver in my voice again and I'm bracing myself to hear the worst.

"Other than sending me messages to suggest that I'm going to die and smiling to my face?" he asks.

"If that  _is_  him," I point out.

"The rat was presumably executed and posted to my cell from within this establishment," he says. "The--"

"Do you have any  _proof_?"

"The padded envelope it was mailed in was a prison-issued one, available in the mail centre here. Much like the fathers use to send compact disc recordings of storybook readings they've composed for their children on the outside."

"And the rat?"

"There are plenty of rats around the prison," he says with a smirk. "You just have to know where to find them."

"So why Gant?" I ask again. "If you truly believe he's doing it, why would he go to the effort? And how would he sneaking messages into your library books?"  _That's_  the part I'm bewildered by. 

"Gant has a stockpile of items in the room," he says. "Which are technically contraband, but his connections and favours allow him particular liberties the rest of us do not have," he tells me. "Amongst those items are pencils-- and the messages--"

"Wait-- do you mean that the messages are  _written_  in the library books?"

I remember Gavin then, complaining about the obscenities and insults he had to remove from the pages of the prison's library books, probably doing just that right now thanks to White filling his place in my office. 

" _Yes_ ," he says insistently. "What did you  _think_  I meant?"

I'm staring at him, horrified. "Forgive me," I say, "I was under the assumption that you were talking about themes, the written word, the... text of the  _book_."

White stares at me blankly, clearly unimpressed. "I've been depressed, yes," he says, "And I suppose I have had some rather fanciful flights of fancy on more than the odd occasion," he says, "but the messages in my reading material are every bit as real as the dead rat sitting in the envelope which Syd Denham retrieved from me this morning." 

"I apologise, then."

I wonder about how well Gavin's doing his job, if he's missing something, if the messages are getting through to White. Maybe he's just being sloppy and missing things in the books... or maybe he's using his library time to do something  _else_. And now, with a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach, I'm wondering  _what_. And then there's the mystery of how Gant managed to get contraband into his room-- likely solved by delving into the behaviour of some of the staff. Waverley springs to mind instantly.

"Apology accepted," White says, but he doesn't sound happy. "So does this suggest that I'm not, in fact, paranoid and delusional?" 

The clear-up on the library books has shed light on the situation: maybe his mind isn't falling into delusional thinking at all-- fear has a good way of paralysing people, disempowering them, and making them look less mentally healthy than they might be.

"Possibly. We haven't really discussed any of your other symptoms which might suggest..."

"I don't hear voices," he says bluntly. "And I don't believe any of the threats on my personage are at all random; there's logic behind all of it... and I know Gant. I've known him for years. And he's going to kill me."

It sounds melodramatic, but for a moment, I can try imagining being in his position. Irregardless of how accurate his assumption is, he's afraid for his life, and he's rooming with the man who wants him dead. Or he believes it. And he believes that no one else believes him and he's just being left to Gant and a murder plot while everyone else believes he's insane.

I think that would be enough to make you feel at least a  _little_  but paranoid.

But still, I need to find a solution.

"So what can we do about it?" I ask. "Protective's full, but there are other options..." Which all look futile if Gant really has that much of a power base.

"The hospital?" he asks. "Solitary?"

"Mr. White," I offer quietly. "Solitary confinement is  _not_  the ideal setting for someone with a history of depressive illnesses."

" _This place_  isn't the ideal setting for someone with depressive illnesses," he mutters. He's right, but I can't dissuade him or confirm it.

"What we need is to find you a workable solution that allows you to receive the help you need and be integrated back into the prison population..."

"Gant will kill me," he says. "Either he'll do it himself or he'll manipulate someone else-- inmate  _or_  staff-- into making sure I cease to be alive."

"Are there staff that you trust?" I ask him seriously.

"Some," he says, "But there are more who I don't."

"Such as..."

He laughs then. "Doctor," he says. "They're already saying I'm a rat on the floor, and in the amount of time we've been talking, I already  _have_  been a rat." He looks deathly serious. "I don't wish to make my grave any deeper than it already is."

There's a brief silence in the office, and a glance at my clock shows that we're nearly done for the session.

"Look," I tell him, "Just keep on with the meds, and if you feel at risk, try to go to staff who you  _do_  trust... who's your case worker?"

"Caster," he tells me, "I haven't seen him for awhile." Caster's been off on stress leave.

"I'll see if I can have a talk to a few higher-ups," I tell him in earnest.

"Thankyou, doctor." He sounds glum and unimpressed. I have a pressing need to do the right thing by him, and to relay back to Parke what his suspicions are.

"Would you like another session with me?" I ask him. "I seem to have a place here, same time next week." It feels weird saying it. 

"So Kristoph Gavin has now given up on psychiatry?" he asks with interest.

I don't say anything. It's none of his business. The fact that he knows about Gavin's patient status and his regular time and length of sessions irritates me, but that's what they do: pay attention to the surroundings.

He smiles as he stands up, attempting to make a joke. "Or has psychiatry given up on  _him_?"

 

* * *

It doesn't help at all that as I'm leaving the office later that afternoon to find Parke-- who doesn't seem to be responding to his phone or the radio-- I'm confronted by Gavin himself, the man who psychiatry gave up on-- waiting outside my door.

"Doctor-- a moment, please?" He looks slightly agitated, and we're eye to eye, his gaze heavy and intense. My hand drifts to the duress alarm. 

"Gavin, I'm exceptionally busy right now and--"

"No you're not," he says bluntly. He peers in the direction of the door closing behind me. "You don't  _look_  exceptionally busy."

"I have no need to justify my actions or productivity to you," I tell him in equally blunt tones.

"I missed our session today, doctor."

"I would have suspected as much," I say tightly. "We're running on low staff levels as you know, and we're currently in the process of finding you a new therapist..."

There's a strange look on his face. It's not quite sad, not quite shocked, and not quite resigned; a combination of all of them. 

"You're... reallocating me?" he asks.

"Given the circumstances, I don't believe we can continue working together," I tell him. "Now... I  _do_  have things to be doing right now, as I believe you do."

He looks almost  _hurt_. A simple act, designed to draw me in and empathise when the reality is--

"I don't," he says. "It's my recreational hour. I  _could_  have spent the time fucking Engarde into a coma in my cell, but I preferred to take the time out to catch up with you."

Isn't that reassuring? 

"Mr. Gavin-- you have been warned about inappropriate sexual behaviour in front of staff already this week--"

"That was last week, if I recall correctly," he states. "And it was  _Waverley_. You're not  _like_  Waverley."

I inhale sharply. "This is precisely  _why_  I cannot work with you," I snap. I'm frustrated. He's no longer my client-- I could tell him in far less polite terms to go away, I could press the duress alarm, I could walk back into my office and slam the door if I wished. 

But professionalism matters to me.

He raises an eyebrow and smirks. "I fail to understand," he says smoothly. "Are you suggesting that you have suddenly realised that my homosexuality bothers you, or is it something  _else_?"

His voice is silky-seductive and he doesn't sound upset any more. He's relishing the argument. Maybe that's what he got from me and didn't get elsewhere, what he liked about me: resistance. I can imagine him pulling a witness to pieces in court with that voice.

I'm not playing his games any more. I stand still and glare at him. "You  _lied_  to me." 

He chuckles. "Lying isn't always a criminal activity." His hand brushes his fringe away from his eyes. "And besides:  _you_  just lied to  _me_."

"No I di--"

"One moment it's impersonal staff shortages, the next moment, you're stating that my attitude is the reason you ceased our sessions," he says, whip-smart. "You're a  _bad_  liar, doctor."

"That doesn't negate the fact that  _you_  lied," I tell him. "I was trying to help you."

My voice has softened. I can't help it. Maybe in some sort of way, I miss the arguments, because these are different to the screaming and swearing an just having to stand my ground, or being up against delusions.

"I never lied to you," he says.

"You know what I'm talking about." My voice is stiff once more. 

"I suspect it's about what came out in the mediation, isn't it?" he asks. "About, well, my little brother." 

"Yes," I tell him. "You had ample opportunities to mention that and..."

"And what bothered you about it?" he asks. "Was it that you have a personal bias towards those who have committed incest or sex acts with those under the age of consent-- or was it that you expected that I  _hadn't_?"

"You never said that you had," I tell him.

"I'd forgotten about it."

"You're lying again." I can feel my lips tightening with the realisation that I've been roped in by him yet again. 

"I'm not." The weird thing is that he sounds honest. And surprised. 

"Mr. Gavin." I step back from him. "Until you're prepared to be honest and upfront and will be willing to disclose the hard truths about your life, I seriously doubt that  _any_  therapy will be of any benefit to you." My voice is rising and I'm furious. But I'm not screaming.

"You'd like the whole truth, the complete truth, the unabridged truth-- nothing but the truth?" he asks. 

" _Yes_."

"I was in the process of delivering it. It's just that my life has been... a full one, I suppose you'd say."

I glare at him and reach behind me for my keys.

"Would you like the rest of my truth?" he asks. The same seductive sneer on his lips, flirting with me, tempting me to ask him.

"I have a nice big secret I'm  _sure_  you'd be interested in. I know Engarde finds it quite amusing." 

"Mr. _Gavin_." He's doing what he did in the mediation, I've noticed; using vague sexual innuendo to intimidate. He'd never done it previously-- this is interesting; he's escalated. Or sees a need for defenses-- or-- I'll make a case note of it. He's not my client any more.

From across the corridor, I hear footsteps and see Towne moving quickly towards us.

He notes Gavin and raises an eyebrow. "Just can't keep away from him, can you?" he asks smugly. "I thought you had a nice little chat yesterday."

"It was unsatisfactory," Gavin says. He doesn't even look at me and turns to Towne. "Return me to my room, please," he says in monotone.

 

 

"Thanks for the report, doc." Parke gives me a nod as I enter the staff room. He's helping himself to coffee, for once we actually  _have_  sufficient coffee for the staff, and for the first time in a long time, Parke seems to be in a good mood. Chance had it that we both opted for a coffee break at the same time.

"No problem."

He's holding the coffee tin in his hand and spins around to look at me. 

"Sounds like it was a very  _big_  problem," he says.

"It wasn't...  _fun_."

"I can imagine..." His voice trails off and then brightens. "Well I've got good news: looks like we've got another psych to take him on for the follow-up mediation, at least." 

I smile and Parke looks down at the coffee he's spooning out for himself. "Want one?" he asks.

If he's making coffee for me, that's his way of suggesting an off-the-record conversation. I don't have any objections to one-- it's been a hectic afternoon for both of us-- an appointment with two other new inmates for me-- petty thieves presenting with no major issues--  _yet_ , I think cynically; there are nervous eyes on Callander like we're all waiting for him to do something, and the offender in the rat-posting drama has yet to be identified. 

"White with two, thanks." I sit down at the communal table; it's abnormally quiet in here besides the gurgle of the urn boiling the water, I can hear Parke sigh under his breath.

"So who's the new psych you're assigning Gavin to?" I ask him. 

He doesn't say anything for a bit, carefully measuring out two spoonfuls of sugar and adding milk to my cup, not looking me in the eye. "We haven't actually found one," he says.

"What do you mean?"

"I talked to deNong and a few of the higher-ups, and, well... I'm up against some resistance, to be honest."

"Res--?"

"Budget's overblown for the quarter," he says. "Quite simply, I've been told that with the numbers we have right now, we can't justify another professional."

"How about someone...  _cheaper_?" I ask tentatively. "I think he likes the company as much as anything else: you could get a psych student just out of college and..."

He looks at me as though I've asked him to stick his keys into an electrical outlet. "Would  _you_  bring some sweet young grad into a place like this?"

I smirk. Slightly. "I  _was_  that sweet young grad," I tell him. 

"Yeah, and look what it's done to you." He laughs. "I don't want any more blood on my hands."

"Neither do I," I mutter. 

Parke looks at me seriously. "Has he told you something about any of the assaults...?" he asks. His face is incredulous and interested.

"No. But... Klavier suspects he arranged the attack on him. And Crescend thinks someone set up the Kitakis to get him..." 

"So I saw... but why would Gavin do something like that?" Parke asks. He looks at my untouched coffee cup and then takes a sip of his own. "Where's the sense in just pissing off people?" 

"Maybe he had a vendetta against Crescend?" I shrug.

" _Everyone_  has a vendetta against Crescend if they've spent more than ten minutes around him."

"It seems too random. He's not random. He's a deliberate son of a bitch and he knows how to hit people at their weakest." I'm surprised at how shaken I sound, but the memory of that sweet, smooth-as-butter voice from earlier in the day bothers me. "Look what he's doing with Engarde."

"You don't believe it's the greatest love story of our time?" Parke asks with a smirk. "You'd be in the minority here, actually." 

I look at him stiffly. "He's using Engarde for  _something_ ," I say. "But I can't figure out...  _what_."

"I think just about everyone else can." Parke doesn't sound overly pleased, but he speaks to me calmly. "Look," he says, "They're both behaving themselves-- Engarde tested clean and seems to have cut down-- no pun intended-- on the suicide attempts and the self-harming." 

"Has Gavin been destroying stationary lately?"

"He hasn't even stolen a pencil."

The mention of pencils reminds me of White's confession. "How'd you go finding the rat-killer?" I ask off-handedly.

" _Why_?"

"I heard something interesting today, actually... I might just know who our culprit is."

"Oh?" Parke raises an eyebrow. He wouldn't be reacting like that if they'd found him. "Who?" he asks.

"Have you heard about White's other claims?"

The look on Parke's face suggests that he hasn't.

"White's been telling me about someone writing messages in his library books, telling him that he's a rat and stuff like that-- which has been causing him considerable distress..."

"Why the hell would Gavin do that?" Parke asks.

" _Gavin_?!"

"Who else has access to library books and writing implements?"

"That's the thing, too-- apparently Gant has contraband in his cell."

"Gant's room was searched."

I shrug. "White knows he's got pencils in there... and I suspect that the messages were written in pencil. Gavin seems to erase messages..."

Parke raises an eyebrow. "He could be the one sending them in the first place, then. And erasing them when the books come back."

I'd not considered that one, but he's right. It's perfectly simple-- and Gavin ensuring he's wearing gloves while he's working...

"Why would he do that, though?" Parke asks. "He avoids Gant and his crew; I think it's one of those alpha male things; they're scared of one another."

"White and Gant aren't such great friends right now, either."

"Yeah, I've heard there's been a bit of animosity between them. I don't think Plan's helping matters. But I can understand that-- he's Godot's room mate and White's paranoid..."

"I don't think it's paranoia. I believe that  _someone_ \-- Gavin or Gant or someone  _else_ \-- is after him. Or wanting to make him feel unsettled and persecuted, at least."

I can't quite believe it's Gavin; if he's busy with Engarde, I can't see him having significant time and motivation to do that.

"So who else would have access to contraband? I believe that White would know what's happening in his own cell, and if--"

"Someone else could be altering the books," Parke suggests.

"Who? And where?"

"Anywhere," Parke says with a shrug. "How hard is it to snatch a book and write something in it?"

"But White's had several of those messages-- whoever's done it has had ample time and opportunity to do it without arousing suspicion."

"Good point." Parke looks annoyed. "If I wanted to solve mysteries, I'd have become a cop."

"Whoever's leaving the messages in the book is probably the person behind the rat delivery, though, and White's already said that it came in a prison-issue mail parcel."

"That seems to suggest that there might be more than one person involved, though, doesn't it?" Parke looks thoughtful. "I mean, there's some effort involved in that, and the more things you're doing, the more of a risk you're taking when it comes to getting caught by the workers."

" _One_  person could have done it..." 

"Are you saying that one person has managed to sneak messages into numerous library books, decapitate a rat and then somehow post it through the mail center and--"

"Engarde works in the mail center," I point out.

"So does Plan." I'm almost amused. I can only imagine what Gavin must think of  _that_. "Then there's Godot-- and he's slipped under the radar and been biding his time for years-- we haven't had a single problem with him-- he'll possibly even make parole next year."

"Why risk that over a petty feud with White then?"

"Because White killed his girlfriend while he was in a coma? Seeing White here and knowing that must feel like  _fate_  for the poor bastard-- as though he's meant to do something." He sighs. "I hope it's not him-- I'd like to see him get out-- he's been good an resisted the urge to do things he shouldn't." 

I don't know Armando very well so I have nothing to comment on, but I've heard the stories-- there was a reason they put terminal victim deLite in Armando's room. 

"What about Plan, then?" I ask. "Could  _he_  be the one wanting to push White out and take his place...?"

Parke slurps down the last of his coffee. "Geez, I don't know," he snaps. "Might as well put it to the staff-- they seem to like a good soap opera to discuss."

"Except we can't talk about what White's talked about."

"Make it easy for us, doncha?"

"Blame the Privacy Act."

I finish the last dregs of my coffee, and place my cup down.

And then, as though on cue, as though someone planned it, a familiar sound rings out, drowning out every thought I may have had for the next topic of discussion.

The duress alarm.

 

 

The unit is chaos when we arrive. There are men standing around the commotion cheering and screaming, workers are making an effort to herd them away and avoid anyone else joining in. 

Parke swears, and rushes over towards the fray. Despite his managerial status, he's spent years working the floor; once a prison officer, always a prison officer.

The shriek of the alarm turns the screaming into dull murmurs; while it alerts the prison to an incident, it also hinders everything else, strategic discussion, the chance for calm. Lily and Denham are wrestling with a pissed-off Stickler who wants to see what's going on further behind me, Waverley and Hamm are trying to move a small group along to their corridor for lockdown. I can see the window shuddering on the TV room as another group of inmates want in on the action, and they've been left there, banging and yelling silently under the scream of the alarm.

My ears are throbbing with the wail of it. I should be used to it by now, but it's a different type of alarm to most; it doesn't have the almost cheerful, grating whir and ring of a fire drill, nor does it have an innocuous bent to it like the admissions gate opening. It's high-pitched panic and terror. You remember the duress alarm.

"What's going on?" Roy shows up next to me. "I was taking a leak and..." I shrug. "Looks like there's an issue." He still has the confusion of a rookie-- while Denham and Lily and Parke are visibly handling the situation, Roy looks out of place, like he's not sure what he's doing and where he's meant to be. He spies Callander crouched in a fetal position by one of the walls, ignored in favour of the more excitable inmates. "Are we on lockdown?" he asks.

I nod to him and he walks over to tend to Callander, who looks grateful to be moved away. Somewhere in the distance the alarm is switched off and we're all momentarily shocked by how quiet it is. The chaos is averted in moments; I'm standing there staring at White and Parke-- and Gant, who is red-faced and clutching the back of his neck with one hand, the other balled into a tight fist, a furious glare directed at White.

I haven't seen everything that has eventuated, and when the other workers rush in to take care of the situation, I return back to the staff room to finish my coffee. I'm pretty sure I'll be needed soon. 

* * *

Adrenaline makes people forget what they're doing in some cases; it intensifies things and when the stimulant causing it to be released is removed, and the adrenaline remains, particularly in an environment like this, it's sometimes as chaotic as the initial incident.

"He just came out of nowhere," Denham says, his face flushed, his voice breathless. "And I was closer to Crescend and Million, so I went to stop them getting involved or exacerbating the situation-- Crescend just wanted to see two guys beat the crap outta--"

"I didn't see the shank, but I thought something was gonna go down--" Hamm says-- "He was acting... weird. Like he had a card up his sleeve--"

"When the duress alarm went off, I just moved for Tigre," Towne says. A quick glance at him amongst the cacophony shows him still puffing and looking as though he's done a round with Ali and come off second-best-- "I mean, if he'd joined in,  _then_  we'd have had a mess on our hands--"

"Who hit the duress?" Roy asks. "I was off the unit for a moment when it happened and--"

"I did," says Lily. "I wasn't taking those two on and I had my hands full with Plan." 

The staffroom is packed and everyone's talking, a murmuring mass of bodies, each mind recalling the incident in its own way.

And then Parke walks in and there's silence as everyone looks at him. Waverley and Field follow behind and take seats, but everyone's eyes are on Parke. 

There's a smear of blood on his shirt and he looks exhausted.

"'Case you didn't know, we're on lockdown now," he says with a broken, can-handle-anything smile. 

"Til when?" someone pipes up.

"For the rest of the night, far as I'm concerned. "We'll dish up some meals on plastics for them and do the rounds for the night," he says.

"What  _happened_?" Hamm asks. 

"White stabbed Gant in the back of the neck and now he's in isolation and Gant's in the hospital wing."

"He stabbed  _Gant_?" someone asks.

"Yeah," Parke says. "Apparently it hasn't been particularly friendly at that neck of the woods lately."

" _Why_?" Tona asks. "I thought they were buddies."

Parke chuckles. "These guys have a unique take on friendship here in a lot of cases."

"Case in question," Denham says with a smirk. "Gavin and Engarde."

There's a giggle and a rustle of interest amongst the staff.

"Now-- I know it's a right royal award winning drama," Parke says, "But right now we're dealing with what looks like another soured love affair: Gant and White." He pauses, and there's a serious kind of silence from everyone. "Does  _anyone_  have any further information for me right now? At the moment, White's saying it was justified self-defense which we all know is utter horseshit because he wouldn't have stabbed him in the  _back_. If it was self-defense, Gant would have come off better-- and Gant's being the jolly old gentleman and pretending he has no idea why his good friend White would do something like that."

"What did he get stabbed with?" 

Parke holds up an evidence bag containing something about four inches long and covered in blood. 

"Great," says Towne, "They're sharing a room..."

"Not for much longer they're not... That's another thing we need to work out: who we're going to move, and  _where_." 

"Move White to solitary?"

"It's only a class B assault," Parke says. "And White's got mental health issues."

"Everyone's got mental health issues," Hamm says. "You need to have mental health issues to  _work_  here let alone to come in voluntarily." 

There's a groan-chuckle around the staffroom.

"I wouldn't feel comfortable putting White in solitary," Parke says. "There are still hanging points in there thanks to the renovations never happening and the executions area needing to be revamped once it was overturned."

"Yeah," Towne asks. "When are they going to fix that?" 

"When we get a decent budget and a temporary holding area for people in solitary."

"No one's there right now," Lily says. "You think they'd put aside money for it."

"You'd  _think_ ," Parke says grimly, "But the CEOs don't. It took them five years to get the new style sprinklers put in."

"There wasn't anything wrong with the old ones," Hamm mutters. "Hanging point, schmanging point."

Parke sighs. "They were ruled unsafe by a human rights authority, and pressure was applied to us-- and hey, I agree-- so we really  _had_  to get them fixed."

"Now all we need's a better alarm system so when some punk pulls one for kicks, the whole place doesn't get flooded."

"Don't say that," Towne groans. "We haven't had a sprinkler pulled in nearly six months."

"And we've got first-timers in, too," I mutter. I see people turn to me, as though they've just realised I'm in the room. "Um, hi," I say gingerly, feeling odd for having spoken up. But it's a known expectation that when someone new comes in, someone else is going to tell them to set off the sprinklers. It's a strange sort of initiation rite around here.

" _Anyway_ ," Parke says. "We need to work out what we're going to do about Gant and White and the whole mess." His brows furrows and I can see wrinkles. "If anyone's got any ideas, or something to tell me, hit me up; I'll be around working on the incident report-- if the relevant case workers could stick by and we'll have our own meeting-- and if the rest of you could get into the kitchen and start serving up in plastics..." 

There's another rustle as coffees are finished, cups are left in the sink-- under a sign reading "CLEAN YOUR OWN MESS"-- (under which someone has written "No!")-- and most of them leave the room. Waverley and I remain at the table, as does Lily.

"I picked up some of Caster's caseload," Lily says. "So unofficially, I guess I'm White's caseworker." She sighs. "I really haven't interacted with him a lot, though, so I don't know what's going on with him." she turns to me then. "I know he's been seeing you-- maybe you could shed some light on things?"

"I knew I'd be useful for something," I say, trying to be jovial.

Parke chuckles. "Okay," he says, pulling out a chair and sitting between Lily and Waverley. "Let's see if we can nut this mess out and work out where to go from here."

 

 

There are two types of warning which you get accustomed to before an incident occurs. 

One's the obvious calm, where everything seems to deaden for awhile, where people get complacent and talk about how well everyone is behaving, and how  _chilled out_  everyone seems to be. The  _chilled out_  is always mentioned skeptically-- things happen in prisons for  _reasons_ , including nothing in particular. That's a time to worry.

Another warning sign is more obvious; when the population seem to be antsy, when there's a stress in the air, a white-noise crackle,  _unrest_  amongst the inmates and sometimes amongst the staff. No one can put their finger on it, it's not quantifiable, it's a series of small things which just let you know to expect something. It's distant and vague and faint, like the brief scent of smoke in the air.

  
That's what the prison is like right now. And even Engarde, who is sitting across from me, looks stressed and uncharacteristically wired up given the recent spate of possibly Gavin-influenced good behaviour. 

"Something's going on, dude," he says. He purses his lips, his head slightly tilted to the side. "I dunno what it  _is_ , but I've got a feeling that something really weird is about to happen."

I raise an eyebrow. "Weirder than what happened the other day?"

He looks puzzled for a moment. "Oh, White and Gant?" he asks. "Yeah, I totally missed that. I was in my room with Gavin when that happened." There's a mischeivious smile on his face, and I feel that I really would prefer not to have accompanying details.

"He misses you, you know," he says abruptly.

I can't hide the instant of shock on my face. "Who does?" I ask. It's obvious, but the shock has made me momentarily dumb. 

"Gavin," he says. "He asked if I could come talk to you for him and stuff."

I bristle behind my desk. "Mr. Engarde," I say warningly. "I'm not here to talk to you as a representative of Mr. Gavin."

"Yeah, but he says you won't talk to him and I don't like seeing him all annoyed and pissed off. It, like, kills the mood and stuff."

He's  _annoyed and pissed off_? 

"What does he do when he's annoyed and  _pissed off_?" I ask tentatively. "He hasn't... placed your safety at risk, has he?" 

"Nah," Engarde says. "I just get kind of down seeing him all bummed out, you know?"

"If you're trying to protect him..."

Engarde looks thoroughly annoyed. " _Look_ ," he snaps. "I'm not scared of him, and I'm his ... _friend_ , you know?"  _Friend_. I'm not sure I fully understand his use of the word, and the fact that  _both_  of them seem to be severely maladjusted people with manipulative tendencies bothers me.

"Have you ever considered that Gavin might not have your best interests at heart?" I ask.

"Yeah," he says. "But he's had plenty of opportunities to stab me in the back, and he hasn't," he tells me. He sounds scarily innocent. "Look-- not naming names when something _happens_  is the sort of shit you do when you're  _scared_  of someone, but that's not what this is about. I just want to see him be a bit happier."

I don't say anything. 

"And I think he's pissed, coz he said you didn't know the full story behind what happened with him and his brother, you know?"

"What did he tell you about that?" I can't help it: I'm curious; I want to know if he actually  _has_  admitted it to anyone or what kind of sugarcoating he used to explain it to Engarde.

"That he and his little bro were fooling around when they were younger," he says casually. "And, well,  _so_?"

"Mr. Engarde... we're not here to talk about other inmates. We're here to discuss  _you_." I'm not sure whether I'm repulsed at how unaffected a former children's television star is about hearing about child abuse, or if I'm completely stunned that Gavin has actually talked about it with someone.

"Yeah, I know," he says. "I just cruised past here because I want some sleeping tablets."

I raise an eyebrow. "Mr. Engarde-- that's  _not_  what making appointments with me is all about," I tell him sternly. "And I'm not in the habit of prescribing drugs-- particularly ones which are known to be addictive-- to people such as yourself."

"But I can't  _sleep_." He's whining, childlike, and there's a pout on his lips. "Doc, I used to drop Xanax like it was candy," he says. "One pissy sleeping pill isn't going to send me to rehab. I just want to  _sleep_."

"Perhaps your room situation is in need of review?" I suggest, wide-eyed and innocent.

"It's not  _that_ ," he says matter-of-factly. "It's not like Gavin's the problem; he doesn't snore or anything." He's wide-eyed and innocent-looking, until a hand brushes his peekaboo fringe off the side of his face, revealing the twisted pale scarring over his other eye. It reminds me, in a way, of how I felt when I saw the devil scar on Gavin's hand.

"I'm referring to--" I clear my throat-- " _other_  things he might be doing at night time."

"Hey, that's not the problem, either," he says defensively. "It's more that I'm completely freaked out by that Callander dude."

Uh oh.

I knew that Callander was going to become entangled in some mess or another once he arrived here, but I didn't suspect that it would be a mess involving Engarde and Gavin. They were their own little calamity.

"Can you tell me what you mean by that?" I ask.

"Well, I know what he's in for," he says. "And I mean--  _kids_ , dude-- that's some pretty fucked up shit right there." He's conveniently ignored Gavin's behaviour-- or he doesn't know the finer details, I suspect. "And he's apparently on some meds that stop him--  _you know_ \-- getting off and stuff."

I raise an eyebrow. Word travels fast around here, apparently.

"But what's that got to do with you?"

"I was getting to that," he continues. His voice drops a notch and he scratches his nose. "You know when someone just...  _doesn't seem right_?" he asks strangely.

 _Like Gavin didn't?_  I think to myself.

"Like, they just do weird shit? This Callander guy was, like, eyeing me and Gavin off in the bathroom the other morning."

"Were you and Gavin doing anything inappropriate in there?"

"No!" he sounds defensive. "Unless you think having a shower is inappropriate-- that's all we were doing--  _I swear_. And there were other people in there; Godot and Million and Crescend I think-- and this Callander dude was just  _staring at us_. And at breakfast, in line, he tells me something about how annoying it is to not get off and stuff." He doesn't look impressed. "I guess it was kind of funny, but it's  _creepy_."

There's an undercurrent in his voice, something shocked that goes beyond a little bit annoyed or disgusted:  _fear_. It's almost laughable that he doesn't seem afraid of Gavin, yet Callander, the new admission, who is terrified-- provokes that sort of reaction in him.

"So you're saying that Callander is stopping you from sleeping?" I ask.

" _Yes_ ," he says. "I'm being serious, doc-- this isn't about me trying to get pills and stuff from you, I mean, we've been through that before. Give me something that's non-addictive, give me some fucking  _Valerian root_  or something... I just want to sleep properly. And I can't when he's in the room opposite and he's murmuring and moaning like some kind of sex-deprived zombie in his sleep."

"So perhaps moving you would...?"

" _Dude_ ," he whines, "I've already talked to you about that. No. I just want Callander to stop freaking me out."

His request seems reasonable, so I write him a prescription for some Dremapaze. Our time is coming to an end. "How are you feeling otherwise?" I ask quickly. "All going well in the mailroom?"

He chuckles to himself. "Yeah," he says. "Mail room's all good." I wonder if he knew about White's delivery. 

"Were you aware of what happened to White the other day?" I ask, casually as possible.

"Oh, the rat thing?" he asks. "Yeah, well obviously someone doesn't like him very much. I think everyone knows that he  _is_  a rat, you know? I mean, Gant never trusted him completely, you know? The guy made his billions on blackmail." He shrugs.

"Do  _you_  have any problems with White?" I ask him.

His eyes narrow and he looks as though I've just insulted him. "What do  _you_  think, doc?" he asks witheringly. He glances towards the door. "Can I go now?" he asks. "Parke's, like, already interrogated us about the rat thing."

I sigh. "If you like."

 

I watch him leave, now confronted with several more problems.

Could crazy little Matt Engarde be the mysterious rat-poster?  
What the hell do we do about Callander?  
Is Matt Engarde to be trusted with benzodiazepines?

...and then the question I'm avoiding thinking about:  _Gavin._

I don't want to think about him but I can't avoid him, and my mind has a horrible way of perseverating on things I'm trying to avoid. The only true path to avoidance is distraction. Or to overload myself with so much that I quite literally have no  _time_  to think about it.

The problem therein, however, is that at least some of my employment necessitates having to think about Gavin. I don't want to, I wish it was a tidy matter of merely handing some paperwork to another professional and offering a polite smile and a "He's all yours, doctor," knowing it will all be over. 

I've thought about it. 

It's a childishly simplistic, appealing thought. I just can't, in good conscience, do it.

  
I sigh as I look over my desk; there's a meeting with White soon, with the possibility of bringing him out of solitary before his mental health starts deteriorating and he begins getting accustomed having his own cell for twenty-three hours a day; he's reported to be in a stable state, calm and speaking normally, and his only ask is that he not be returned to room with Gant.

Gant had handed over the contraband in their cell with a careless shrug and a smile, according to an email from Parke, leading both Parke and I to become suspicious. It was as though he  _didn't_  want to appear bothered by the loss of the pencils, or as though he'd  _finished_  with them. Suddenly the notion of Gavin being involved seems ridiculous.


	9. Sinking Ship

"Where did he get the fucking pencils from, anyway?" Towne asks as I enter the staff room. He's talking to Lily and Hamm. 

"I could guess," Lily says darkly, and three heads turn as they realise they've got company.

"Hi," I say softly. The conversation about the pencils-- one of which was what White stabbed Gant with-- stops. 

"Something's going on," Lily says, looking to me for confirmation. "Wouldn't you say so?"

I think about what Engarde told me and then Lily's suspicions about Waverley being untrustworthy. I don't wish to fuel a bitch session about an absent staff member. "Does it involve Julien Callander?"

"No." Hamm sounds surprised. "I haven't seen anything..."

"Why do you ask?" Towne's sounding suspicious, as though there's something he's just had confirmed. "I always thought that guy was a ticking time bomb."

"Apparently he's been rather explicitly talking about sex with other inmates."

The three of them laugh in a forced, theatrical manner. "Name one person here who doesn't," Lily scoffs. "It's blowjobs this and blue balls that everywhere around here." She gives me the kind of withering you-silly-educated-professional look. "In case you hadn't noticed."

"I had Crescend sound at least half-serious when saying 'Blow me' this morning," Hamm says. "Told him I wouldn't put anything in my mouth if I didn't know where it's been, you know?" He chuckles and Lily and Towne join in.

"Plan's hit on people," Towne says casually. "I think everyone except Lily's been propositioned." There's a pause. "No offense, Lily."

"I haven't had a proposition from him yet," Hamm pipes up.

"Me neither," I add. "Though I was warned of his plan. No pun intended."

"It's not anything special." Towne doesn't look impressed. "I think at least some of it's shock value, and some of it's--"

"Gant wants more staff under his belt," Lily snaps. The room falls silent and all of us are staring at her. " _You know_  what he does-- first it was Wellington and then Engarde, and he's lost Engarde now so--"

"Wait-- what's this got to do with staff?" Hamm asks.

Towne looks uncomfortable; like he's trying to remain neutral.

"He's got Waverley eating out of his hand and he's probably going after some of the...  _less experienced_  staff," she says. She sips her coffee and doesn't quite look at anyone. "And--  _fine_ \-- write me up for talking about other staff members, but Waverley's pissing me off today."

"Any reason why?" 

"As Caster's fill-in, I'm dealing with White-- and I'm worried about White. And Waverley's Gant's caseworker, and the way the guy just seems to act like the sun shines out of his--" she stops herself-- "I don't think he stabbed Gant for no reason, and there have been enough complaints about that guy--"

"Unsubstantiated," Towne murmurs. "Has  _anyone_  ever said that they've been  _victimised_  by Gant?"

There's a blank silence of confirmation.

"We know Wellington and Engarde were whoring for him," Hamm says, "But--"

"Prec _ise_ ly," Towne says. "They were  _whoring_  for him. But that doesn't mean they were being coerced or victimised-- they're not going to admit to it."

"Geez, even  _I've_  had those two offer...  _favours_." Hamm doesn't sound pleased about the concept. "I'd be scared of catching something. I mean, there was a while back when the whole unit just seemed to  _offer_  Engarde cigarettes, and Wellington was showing off about it."

"So you think inmates are  _servicing_  staff?" Towne asks.

"Hey, remember when Colin Wood got fired?" Hamm asks.

 _Colin Wood_. A livewire and a problem whom had proven a headache and a half for management. Oddly enough, it hadn't been his sloppiness and unassertiveness which caused him to be asked to leave; it was getting caught receiving a blowjob from Engarde in the meds room a few years ago. 

There's a chuckle of recognition amongst everyone, and it seems that the Waverley issue has been narrowly avoided, as has the issue of staff accepting sexual favours from inmates.

It makes me uncomfortable, the way it's been brushed aside so lightly, but the nature of the allegations is serious. No one wants to be a rat in here-- this includes the staff. It's okay to talk about Colin Wood because he wasn't here for very long and no one especially liked him-- and his behaviour was discovered unexpectedly by Parke and the then-new Denham. Waverley's been here for years, Waverley's part of the team.

Doing more than suggesting the inappropriate about him would be akin to being a rat. 

I start making myself a coffee, and Lily smiles at me. "So we're doing a run-through with White?" she asks. It's not a question, the lilt in her voice is more an upbeat conversation-opener than a confession of ignorance. I nod as I stir my coffee. 

"I hope he's okay," she says. Towne and Hamm are kicking back and enjoying their coffee, not saying much.

"So do I."

"Gant's been driving him insane... just little offhanded things; not actual  _abuse_ , but... you know Gant-- he's got his ways of keeping people quiet without laying a finger on them." Her voice is lowered and uncertain. "I really don't think  _White's_  the problem here."

I nod and sip my coffee. "Have you spoken to Parke about it?"

"He didn't sound that interested," she says. "I think he's more worried about the issues with Callander... I don't trust him, either, you know..." 

There's a creak and the door opens. Roy walks in, and there's a smile from Towne directed towards him. 

"How's it going out there?" he asks.

"They're driving me nuts," he says simply. "Plan's on something-- I  _swear_ , Callander was asking me creepy questions, and--"

"Callander's been creepy?" I look over to him. "You need to explain that it isn't appropriate to..."

"He knows that," Roy snaps. "That's why he does it."

"What about Plan?" I ask.

"He's very... theatrical, I guess. There's something about him, though... he  _flirts_." He doesn't look pleased. "It's like he thinks he's going to con me into letting him get away with stuff because he sees me as a like-minded soul or something." His face distorts into a scowl. "Like  _I_  would be selling drugs to people and not doing anything when someone ODs next to me." 

Lily looks at her watch and gulps down the remainder of her coffee. "We've gotta go see White," she says brightly.

"Good luck with that," Roy murmurs. 

"Hey, he's all right." Lily offers a smile. "You look stressed-- go out and have a smoke, okay?"

"I don't--"

From the table, Towne chuckles. "We  _all_  smoke here," he says. "Give it time."

Lily nods in agreement and then looks at me. "Ready to go, doctor?" she asks, and then looks at Towne and Hamm. "Are you going to escort us, too?"

Towne stands up and follows us to the door. "Chill out," he says to Roy. "It isn't too bad 'round here, you know? You get your problem cases, but it's not  _that_  bad."

 _Problem cases_. Right now, we're inundated with them.

* * *

  
White's sitting on the cot bed when the three of us arrive, looking miserable and numbed. Lily raps on the steel railing of the cell and smiles as he looks up. "Mr. White," she says. "We've got some stuff to talk about."

Nice and perky and simplistic, like she's a kindergarten teacher.

To my surprise, he gives her a beaming smile. "Lily Dale!" he announces. "How wonderful to see you!" 

This was a man who loved women in his heyday, who thrived on female attention. Now he's reduced to trying to charm Lily, who's seen it all before and who can come across as sweetness and light, but is every bit as hardened and cynical as everyone else here.

The door is unlocked and White remains on his bed. 

"We need to wand you," Towne says, holding the plastic implement in his hand. "Haven't you done this before?" 

"I'd forgotten," White says in a haunted kind of voice. "It's been awhile."

He steps over to us and watches as Towne runs the wand around him.

"Do I just sit down now?" he asks. He glances at me. "I didn't know I was getting a psychiatric appointment."

He's already looking and sounding depressed. Gone is the enthusiasm in his voice, the ego and the need to impress with long words.

"You're not," Towne says. "We're here to discuss moving you back to gen pop." He looks around. "This place is depressing, White. You don't want to stay here."

"I'd rather be here than at the mercy of Damon Gant," he says. 

"We've organised for you to have accommodation without Gant," Towne tells him. "There's a single freed up in--"

"What about work duty?" he asks, panicked. "Do I have to work alongside Furio Tigre still and--"

"We were thinking of moving you to the mail room," Lily says softly. "Gant's not working there, Tigre isn't working there, and--"

"Plan works there, though. So does Engarde."

"I didn't realise Engarde was part of Gant's group any more." Towne looks puzzled. "Since Gavin returned to the unit and those two started sharing a room together."

"Engarde is going to kill me."

Lily raises an eyebrow. "I think Engarde has threatened to kill everyone here," she says. 

"No- no no no-- I am being perfectly serious here. Engarde wants me dead."

He's changed to nervous now, and his socked feet shift on the floor in front of him. "Engarde has reason enough to want me dead, though," he says, then cuts himself off-- "I can understand why Gant wishes to see the end of me-- I know too much-- I always did and have-- and somewhere, there is the threat of evidence of my knowledge about his seedy activities in existence-- he hates me for the same reason others have-- Manfred von Karma and--"

"Mr. White," Towne says sternly. "We need to stay focussed here; we can't go off track and think about why other people might wish to see you dead-- and we can't keep you here indefinitely."

"You did with Gavin," he spits, glaring at me. "Gavin received visitors and music and--"

"Gavin was in here for a different reason, and we're not here to discuss him," I point out stiffly. "And if you are fearing for your safety to this degree, perhaps the option of protective custody needs to be discussed..."

"Why do you believe that Engarde wants you dead?" I ask solemnly.

He doesn't look at us. He looks at the floor for a moment, studying the marks in the polished concrete, as though trying to read a hidden message in the cracks and dints.

"I was involved with something which damaged Engarde," he says. "But--" 

His chin wobbles nervously, that proud, prominent chin I remember when he first came in. "I can't talk about it."

"Why not?" Lily asks.

"Because contrary to popular opinion around here-- I'm  _not_  a rat. Not that much of a rat, anyway."

I sigh and try to catch a glimpse of his face. "You can trust me, however, that Engarde has a perfectly good reason to wish me to die," he says. "And as a result-- I'm afraid of--"

"Don't give me that crap!" Towne stomps on the floor angrily. "I can't trust you-- you were  _asked_  to tell us about any legitimate threats to your safety, and now you're pulling vague-assed bullshit out of your ass? I don't buy it," he snaps.

White can barely look at any of us. He flinches away when Towne's voice raises, and shifts along the bed.

"I'm not scared of Engarde," he says in a sickened sort of monotone. "I know I can overpower him."

"What did you do to him?" Lily asks suspiciously.

"I-I can't tell you--  _really_." 

"So why are you scared of him?" Towne's voice is still harsh and unimpressed. He's probably suspecting the worst and has likely decided that White is either a liar or a rapist, and that either way, he doesn't deserve much in the way of sympathy.

"I'm not scared of  _him_ ," White murmurs. "It's... Gavin."

"Why Gavin?”

  
"Because Gavin and he are..." He looks mildly disgusted-- "And Gavin is..."

"Gavin's crazy doesn't just extend to you, White," Lily says. "And that's too vague a threat to be perceiving. I can accept fear of retaliation from Gant as a reason for not wanting to return, but we've sorted out that."

"What about Godot?" White asks.

"Armando has been talked to by Parke, and we have a strategy plan in place for him as we will with you once you're returned to the unit."

"But..."

"Mr. White," I say gently. "We'd prefer to have you back on the unit."

"I'd prefer to not be back on the unit."

"Given what we know about your mental health, it's not safe keeping you here, either."

He idly looks up at the top of the steel bars, as though just realising they're a safety risk and why.

"I'm not suicidal," he says. "But I'm concerned about my safety on the unit." 

"We're taking that into account," Lily says. She's sounding frustrated, and I can begin to imagine why. If White had attacked Gant in the same sort of manner Gavin had attacked Wellington, it would be a different story. Gavin's attack was unprovoked and serious. Wellington was in the hospital wing for weeks, and Gavin wasn't even offering a reason behind why the assault occurred.

If White had been... more unbalanced about his attack, he'd still remain in solitary for purposes of isolation. If he'd been presenting with odd behaviour suggesting a need for further assessment or offering the possibility that he might strike again, he could stay.

But it's all been too painfully obvious with White, he's no risk to anyone but Gant, and he's just suggested he's of no risk to himself.

"This is precisely  _why_  we're ready to return you to the unit," Lily says. "And Gant's been talked to as well, and he handed over the contraband which--"

"I  _told_  you he was behind the books," White growls. "Didn't I?" 

"There was nothing mentioned about library books," Lily says uncertainly.

"I don't think he's just going to  _tell you_."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Look." He reaches underneath his bed and pulls out a copy of  _The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo_.

"Good book," Towne says vaguely.

"Not the  _book_ ," White snaps. " _This_." He flips the book open to the interior pages, his finger pointing out some chickenscratch underneath the publishing details.

"What does that say?" Towne asks. He's squinting, and when White turns the book around to face him, his eyes widen. "Creepy," he says, passing the book over to Lily and I.

An initial glance makes me think someone's accidentally written cataloguing details in the pages of a book, until I realise the number written next to the equals sign and the arrow.

"It's my prison number," White says. "I realise anyone can see that-- it's on my shirt-- but..."

"What?" Lily asks.

"It's Gant's way of telling me that my number is up. It's a euphemism, like the kiss of death or something. I don't want to go back there."

Lily nods seriously, and I look at the book again. "Can I please take this with me?" she asks.

White nods as she accepts the book, closing it.

 

"Look," she says. "We can't just keep you here, Mr. White-- but you have every right to be safe out there on the unit and to be a part of things-- we can go to reasonable lengths to make sure you don't suffer at the hands of anyone, but..."

"You're going to send me back out there?" he asks, voice quivering, "Aren't you?"

"That decision hasn't been made yet." she sighs, exasperated. "It isn't mine alone to make... but... at some stage, you'll be returned to the unit."

"What about protective custody?" he asks quickly. 

"Right now there are no beds free there and..." She doesn't sound happy about it. The threat of Redd White using his blackmail muscle on people already in protective is a possibility, too.

"We can look into it for you," she says. "But... at some stage, pal-- you're going to have to leave this place." 

Towne nods in agreement, and White has his moment of looking horrified before facing us directly. "I'll return," he says. "But I do wish very much for your protection." He looks stoic and unhappy. "But I wish for it to go on the record," he continues slowly, "That most likely, I'll be killed by someone." 

It's melodramatic, but not haunting, and even as I leave his cell with Lily and Towne, I have worse things on my mind.

 

 

White's back on the unit by the evening. 

I don't see his return, I hear about it from Towne who has come up to my office as I'm leaving.

"Damon Gant gave him a shiteating grin which made my blood freeze," he says as I'm shutting down my computer. It's a somewhat poetic description for the usually stoic, unromantic Towne, and I look up at him. He can't hide the worry on his face. "Whatever the hell's going on, it's far from over."

I look down at the book on the end of my desk. "I know," I tell him. "But if I support him in his ideas... and if I wind up agreeing with him, it's not doing him-- or us-- any favours."

I'm reminded of Gavin, sitting on the side of his bed, singing along to himself and idly flipping through his newspaper, entirely too comfortable in solitary. "We've  _got_  to maintain that this is a safe environment."

Towne nods. "Otherwise we get... chaos." His voice drops and he sounds as though he's already expecting it. "We've got just the right mix for it right now, too-- and whatever this thing with White is..."

"I wonder why Gant decided he was a rat," I say out loud. "What gave him the idea...? For years they seemed to get along, and now the way White talks about him..."

"Perhaps it was that Gant's been put on extra observations," Towne says. "Something which  _you_  requested, according to the forms on the increased obs--"

"I have reason to believe that Gant's been involved in the victimisation of other inmates," is all I say. "And I can't reveal why because that would be breaching confidentiality, as there have been no formal complaints lodged... but since we have a few new and particularly vulnerable inmates, I think keeping tabs on what someone like Gant is doing isn't a bad idea... that's all."

"But that's why I think Gant thinks White's a rat: the extra obs. Which makes sense, you know?" He looks at me almost challengingly, as though hoping I'll cough up to who made me suspicious about Gant. When I don't say anything, he offers another line of conversation-- 

"When he was rambling initially, White insinuated that he had dirt on Gant." His nose wrinkles uncertainly. "And he's probably seen and heard a few things-- and that mightn't just be from in here..."

"Gant and von Karma were friends on the outside, and both were in prominent positions-- those were the people whom White tried to dig up dirt on..."

"I wonder what the dirt  _was_ ," Towne says. "And if it was from his days as a free man, I wonder if there's any physical evidence of it..."

"I have no idea," I say with a shrug. "He's probably gathered more information about Gant in here than out there, he just doesn't have anything to back it up with."

"It's funny," Towne says philosophically, "How thin the bonds of friendship really are here. Those two were friends for  _years_  and now they're stabbing one another in the back."

I don't say anything. It's prison. Towne should know as well as I do how it works around here. 

"You know what it's like," I offer non-committally.

He gives me a wry grin. "Anyone'd think he's qualified to work here," he says. "With that sort of attitude."

* * *

It's only on the way into work on the morning of the second mediation that I remember that it's approached. It's while I'm driving in-- I listen to 109.3 BackTrack Classics, the radio station catering to those of us who like our classic pop and rock memories mixed with a bit of obscurity, easygoing, easy-to-consume pop on the way into work with a few laughs and some light-hearted silliness as we start our day. The songs they play are well-known and well-loved, hits from their time, and it's only when I'm humming along do I realise what Marty Mac's Breakfast Crew are playing.

 _My body aches and I feel numb  
You have no idea what you've done  
Lost in the moment, a moment too long  
Fifteen minutes ago was where it all went wrong  
One touch, one taste and that's all I need--_

 _Atroquinine my love--  
You're the one I'm thinking of--  
I can live with all the lies  
With mismatched lullabies_

I stop humming when I realise what I'm humming along to. Klavier Gavin's creepy little platinum single. 

At least I can be assured I won't be there to see what happens today.

I pity the person who does.

 

My workday is conducive to forgetting about the mediation. I'm barely there for five minutes and Parke is knocking on my door, frustrated and urgent.

"You've got a nice busy day ahead of you," he says. He's got files under his arms, and my stomach sinks. I'm willing to guess they're for  _me_ , not on their way to archival.

"I'm not doing Gavin's mediation," I tell him. "You told me that was sorted out with someone else."

"It is," he says. "Though this new guy's probably going to want a run-through on him. Kristoph Gavin one-oh-one."

He's disturbingly perky.

"What's happened this morning?" I ask. When Parke's in a good mood, it's because he's either heard there's been a budget increase or things are looking bad, and his perkiness is a grim, forced sort of happiness designed to mask fear and unrest within him. 

"Callander's been in a minor incident with Plan and Tigre," he says. "No idea what happened, and Roy broke it up and got smacked in the head while it was going down."

"Is he okay?"

"He's a bit shaken and nervy, but you know what it's like." He shrugs. "Someone pops your cherry in this place and suddenly you're part of the team."

I raise an eyebrow. "I was part of the team before Ressler threw that chair at me," I tell him.

"See?" He grins at me and speaks warmly. "You always remember your first time."

He's right in a way, but it's different for professional workers as opposed to staff on the floor. Maybe not having to face the threats and the violence and the prison population as one big  _mass_  like they do shields us to a degree? I'm not sure, but I've never referred to that initial assault as someone  _popping my cherry_. Warped prison humour doesn't just get adopted by the inmates.

There's an almost uncomfortable silence between us then; we work under the same roof, but in a way, there's a division between us and it's little moments like these which highlight it. He looks down at the book on the end of my desk.

" _The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo_?" he asks. "My old lady loved those books."

"It's not mine," I tell him. "It’s from the library. Have a look in the front."

He knows what he's looking for-- he flips to the front page, his fingers carefully avoiding the grey lead pencil marks. "I always thought White was just losing it," he says. "I couldn't believe it when I heard about it... but... here it is, huh?"

"Has anyone admitted to doing it?"

"You mean, Gant, don't you-- and no, he hasn't." He looks annoyed. "There's definitely some intimidation going on there-- they seem chummy but my guess is White's shitting himself and wanting back in his good books. He's a sitting duck where he is: dirt on everyone, now ousted from the Gant group, and..."

"Is protective custody an option yet?"

 

"What, to throw him in with corrupt cops and prosecutors?" Parke raises an eyebrow. "He's got plenty of enemies in there, too." He scratches the back of his head. "He's a logistical nightmare when you think about it-- if he'd been a bit crazier in the way he went Gant, he could still be in solitary..."

My thoughts exactly, but I don't mention it.

I look down at the book. "So is this evidence?" I ask him.

"I suppose so." He studies the handwriting. "It looks fairly messy, doesn't it?" he asks. "I guess White could decipher it easily enough, that's what matters, right? It reached its target audience."

I give him a blank look and the book is left on the end of my desk. Parke seems to want conversation-- I suppose it's his way of diffusing the nerves. 

"I heard you had a run-in with Gavin the other day," he says randomly. 

My eyes are suddenly on his, and I'm standing up straighter at though I've been touched with a cattle prod. That's the thing about Gavin-- he slips into reality unexpectedly, and it's unnerving.

"He misses me," I say dryly.

"I'm aware of that." There's a gruff look on his face and he's serious. "Why'd you drop him?" he asks. "It's not like you haven't dealt with peds before."

I feel my face tighten and my hand reach to rub that spot on my neck. It's frustrating because he's right. There is no rational reason for me to drop Gavin as a client.

"It's not really the nature of his offending," I say. "It's the fact that Gavin seems to be unhealthily attached to me."

 

Parke's eyes widen, and for a fleeting second, he looks fascinated. "He hasn't..."

I'm not quite grasping his suggestion.

"You know--  _hit on you_?" I know if I answer the wrong way, I'll be staffroom gossip like Wood.

In a way, I wish he had, because embarrassing as it might be for awhile with the bizarre humour and the workplace culture, at least it would give me clear enough reasoning to wish to avoid him.

"No," I say. Suddenly my voice is uncertain. "It's just that I don't feel he takes either myself or the sessions seriously. Maybe he's not ready for therapy."

"He speaks very highly of you," he says.

"He can be incredibly charming and flattering," I point out. "It's not difficult to like him."

Parke looks shocked. "This is a remorseless sociopath who was sentenced to dea--"

"He's got no official diagnosis," I remind Parke. "So, no, he's not a sociopath."

"You know what I mean," Parke grumbles. "He tried to poison a young girl. He poisoned her father. He ruined his contemporary's life. He killed another man in cold blood, and since he's been here he's randomly attacked someone for no logical reason whatsoever, and he's done things to Matt Engarde that he probably should be serving another sentence for."

"Engarde consents," I say coolly. 

"That aside: he's... you know what he's like. So why's his confession of what happened with Klavier so earth-shatteringly horrible?"

His tone has changed from the last time we talked about this, and I cast him a narrow glare. "You haven't found a replacement for me," I ask, cottoning on-- "Have you?"

I can tell by the way he twitches that I'm right. 

"So what's going to happen to him after today?"

"Yeah," says Parke. "We can't  _not_  have him receiving the psychiatric care and attention he requires."

I've been pushed into a corner again, and I'm furious. I can feel blood rushing to my head and a twinge of angry electricity running through me. I've been played.

"Do you realise?" I ask calmly, "that when Gavin himself becomes aware of this, he's going to believe that he manipulated the circumstances in his favour to get this outcome?"

"Well, we need to nip that in the bud--"

Like it or not, I'm not done with Gavin, it seems. 

"It needs to be made  _crystal_  clear to him that in order for the therapy to continue, he needs to be serious about it. Committed." My words are coming out tightly, and my mind isn't completely comprehending it. I thought I was clear of him. I'm trying to be professional.

"Uh-huh-- we can do that--"

"He needs to understand that this isn't just a weekly chew the fat session with his shrink buddy," I continue-- "that he needs to be  _honest_ , to disclose things--"

"He explained to me that he wanted to talk to you about something in seriousness but you--"

"He did so in a sexualised fashion and in a manner that was highly inappropriate and extremely vague."

I stop myself. My voice was rising, spinning out of control, for a second there, I was swept up in rage.

"He hasn't threatened you, has he?" Parke asks quietly. 

When I don't say anything, he continues. "I can't imagine why he would and he told me that he hadn't-- he said that he respected and trusted you..."

"If he  _respects_  me, he would be more forthcoming about his behaviour," I continue. "And if I am going to be seeing him again, I'm going to need someone to explain to him that I need full disclosure."

Parke looks at me curiously, then his face softens. "I'm sorry," he says. "I tried-- I really did. deNong's being a prick about budgetary allowances-- they want the solitary section to get fixed and the sprinklers over on the work placement sections to be sorted out and..."

I sigh; it's an almighty heave. "I realise," I say glumly. "I just don't want any more rotten surprises from him."

The softened, quizzical look hasn't left him, and then he opens his mouth to say something. He looks like he's not sure if he's going to regret it or not.

"We all have at least one who gets under our skin," he tells me, as he had the day I was advised to take some time off. "I've had a  _few_. You get used to it on the floor, but--"

"Gavin's  _different_ ," I tell him tersely. "I'll see him-- because I have to. But there is something extremely unnerving about that man."

 

I'm so ridiculously tense and  _irked_  about Gavin and being pushed back into seeing him that I don't hear the initial knock on the door.

The second time, it's louder.

 

  
In spite of having just dealt with Callander, having flipped through the files Parke left me (Callander's, White's and Engarde's) and having attempted to read through them, the thought of seeing Gavin and that cool, collected little smile ( _So we meet again, doctor_ \-- and  _then_  that smile) is the thing I keep thinking of. Like it all happened because of him.

Like I can't escape him.

By lunchtime, he's like a song stuck in my head ( _I can live with all the lies... With mismatched lullabies..._ ) but my frustration is thwarted with a realisation thanks to skimming through  _everything_  in Engarde's file.

Engarde's file reads like a couple of telephone directories-- about just as thick and equally exciting for the most part-- there are critical incident reports, hospital charts, various plans he's had to read over and sign, stating that he won't partake in drug use or aggressive and unsafe behaviour, there are suicide prevention plans and behaviour management strategies. Of the newer pieces of paper included, there is the report from the health department, stating that he sustained a bite to his shoulder which needed to be carefully monitored for signs of infection. The injury was listed, clinically and unemotionally and there was a brief mention of a course of medication and treatment prescribed. 

This was Matt Engarde, as seen by dispassionate professionals.

I flicked through the reports and printouts; some featured photographs depicting other injuries he'd had over the years, observation reports, some brief legal information and then his initial consultation details. 

And sandwiched in amongst those, a critical incident report describing a gang rape which occurred seven years ago.

The offenders weren't named; he'd gone to some effort to not describe them to Parke, who'd been the worker who'd written the report. Seven years ago-- Parke wasn't yet a manager, a whole range of staff who'd since left were on the payroll, and I was primarily based out of the hospital wing back then.

Gant, White, Tigre and Wellington were back there, then.

White's comment about Gavin having reason to kill him-- for  _damaging_  Engarde-- comes to mind.

 

When I hear the knock on the door, I look up. The key's turned in the lock and Hamm is there, with a very frantic-looking White.

I'm startled and I can't hide it.

"White has requested a meeting with you, doctor," Hamm says. "Should I let him come in?"

"P-please," White stutters. He looks terrible, like he's going through withdrawal from something. "I-I just need to tell you some things."

Hamm looks concerned. This is completely off the record; appointments are usually made and then granted, but there's an urgency I don't like right now. 

My busyness has been broken for a moment.

"Come in, Mr. White," I say uncertainly. "Have a seat."

I glance up at Hamm. "We should be right for a little while," I tell him. I wait for the door to shut and then turn to White. 

"What's wrong, Mr. White?"

He's shuddering in the chair; his face looks older and more lined than I remembered it last time, and his hair is limp and pushed down. He's barely recognisable as White, and I'm not afraid of him at all. 

I'm afraid  _for_  him, for some ominous reason.

"T-they're planning something," he says in a garbled hurry. "But I can't tell you what it is, they're planning their revenge and they've got the last part and can you make the unit go into lockdown and..." He looks up. "You've got to believe me," he says. "It sounds crazy but it's not and..."

" _Who_  is planning  _what_?" my voice is gentle and concerned. 

"I can't tell-- I'm not a rat-- but something enormously, epically bad is going to happen," he says. "They've been planning it for a while, they know things..."

"Who's  _they_?" I ask. One thing at a time. 

"I think you know," he says. "Who else would be facing a loss or further punishment because of what's happening today?"

I'm confused, and he sounds delusional.

 

"Have you ...taken anything... today, Mr. White?" I ask him. The way his eyes are flashing around makes me wonder if the fear is at least partially drug-induced.

"My-- meds," he says, starting to calm down a bit-- "But this isn't a reaction-- this was a  _test_ \-- to see if I was a rat or not, and--" there's an angry, determined look on his face-- " _I'm not a rat_."

I want to offer him a drink of water or a cup of coffee. I used to have some mints on my desk which I would offer to them until they were declared a safety risk.

"Can you tell me about what this plan is in a way that doesn't compromise your safety but which allows me to work out what's happening and why you think we need to go into lockdown?" I ask.

He wants the unit put on lockdown. Getting the unit put on lockdown is a sure fire way to make enemies-- I've seen it over the years-- a young upstart comes in and tries to pick a fight with one of the head honchos in order to assert his power; the unit goes into lockdown and everyone's eating their dinner on plastics, and the next morning the young upstart has some explaining to do and a whole lot of people who don't like it.

"I can't," he says softly. "Because they'll  _know_."

He's a man caught between a rock and a hard place. 

"Look," he says desperately. "Get Parke in here; put the unit on lockdown. As it stands, when you return me to the unit, someone's going to kill me-- once their plans are foiled, they'll know it was me who ratted on them."

"You're not going to get killed, Mr. White." I try to sound reassuring though my voice trembles slightly. In his panic, he doesn't notice.

"They will," he says. "This was a test."

I pause. "What made you go against them?" I ask him. "Why put your life at risk, then?"

He blinks and looks at me carefully. I can see the wrinkles in his face smoothing out, the eyes widen, what used to be a handsome face propped up with collagen injections start to look more serious. 

"All my life I've guarded secrets," he says. "I've found out the most awful parts of people's lives, I've clung to them. Bluecorp didn't just collect money from people in return for blackmail--" he smiles wryly as though relishing fond memories-- "No-- we  _protected_  people." He looks like he's about to consider saying something. "We tried to be honourable in the business," he says.

I don't say anything. Every criminal justifies his trade; the murderer says that they were doing the world a favour, the pimp is providing a cost-effective service, the child molester was only being a bit too loving.

"We  _did_  try," he insists. "Secrets were our life blood, and when--" he grits his teeth-- " _people_  found things out, it became messy." 

"People like that woman you murdered?" I ask him.

" _Yes_ ," he hisses. "If she'd exposed us, she would have destroyed us-- and by proxy, the clients we were protecting." He looks almost guilty for a second. "I'd prefer  _not_  to have taken the action that I did-- but the business-- and the reputation of my clients-- was at risk."

"Don't you mean if you'd let their secrets out,  _you_  would have been at risk?"

He looks thoroughly unimpressed. "We can play semantics," he says. "But one of the reasons Bluecorp was as successful as we were was that we looked after our clients. We needed their secrets so we made  _sure_  those things stayed secret. If others found out, they'd no longer be secrets."

"What does this have to do with the incident you are concerned about?" I ask him.

"I'm just telling you, doctor-- I've spent a good part of my life guarding secrets."

"And extorting money from them to continue guarding those secrets."

 

"Well-- yes." He looks sheepish. "When I arrived here, I didn't believe that skill would be necessary, but after the first year, when Manfred von Karma arrived--" His face changes, and he looks terrified, as though von Karma has been haunting him-- "von Karma despised me," he says.

Suddenly, something occurs to me; something he'd said earlier.

"You were blackmailling him on the outside," I say slowly. Suddenly, I'm feeling ill. "You've had visitors from the Department of Public Prosecutions..."

 

"I am no longer conducting any kind of business with anyone there any more," he says in a snap. "Though I have had visits from a staff member there-- in my prime, I had an exceptional relationship with most of the staff."

"Including Damon Gant?" I ask.

"Yes," he says with a smirk. He's regained something, that glimmer in his eyes, he knows that knowledge is power and for the first time in a long time, he finally  _has_  power.

"Damon Gant is an evil man," he says quietly.

"Yes," I say with a nod, humouring him for the moment-- "But--"

"I know precisely what Gant is capable of," he says. "I had information on him, too." He licks his lips nervously. "I'm saying too much as it stands, but I suppose it doesn't really matter any more."

He looks around the room nervously. "When Gant was in here, his reputation as an officer of the law was destroyed, but his reputation as a human being wasn't. Up until his arrival, I'd kept to myself, largely; I had no real motivation to cause anyone any trouble, I behaved myself, I guess you could say. When von Karma arrived, I knew he despised me and he attempted to bring me under his wing, but he had a healthy level of respect for me because I had some information about him which he did  _not_  wish to be made public."

I'm confused. "But... he was inside," I say. "And he was sentenced to death..."

"von Karma had a reputation and a legacy," White tells me. "As well as two daughters." 

I nod, unsure where he's going, and the nervousness comes into his face again. He shuts down, like a video tape being randomly stopped and fast forwarded and then started up further along. "When Gant arrived, he was afraid of me," he says. "He caught up with his old buddy von Karma, moments later they were sharing a cell, and since Gant and I were familiar with one another from the outside..." he trails off and then starts up again. "Suddenly I was brought into the loop." There's a sigh. "We were going to run the prison."

My eyes widen. 

"Isn't that what Gant's accused of doing now?"

"Now that Manfred von Karma has met his maker, my information on him does not have the weight that it did seven years ago," he says. "But I still have information on Gant, and since his little... changes in his lineup-- Engarde getting into cahoots with Gavin-- he's angry."

"Does this have something to do with this incident?" I ask.

"One thing I've known for a long time," White says, "is how to read and understand people. People and power and social dynamics-- it was essential to the empire I'd built myself as a free man. I needed to know the way people worked in order to get the most out of them..." he stops again, no longer relishing his glory days. "Gant is terrified that his power base is being torn down. Even though he has Tigre on hand to back him up, since Engarde defected and Wellington was assaulted, he's been restless and scared."

A dark look comes into his face then. "He needs Tigre to be physically intimidating. He needed me to be psychologically intimidating. And he's aware that the threat of me being a--  _rat_  makes life harder for him and puts the power back into my hands," he says.

"So you... believe that you could run the prison?" I ask.

"No," he says. The fear's back. "And I don't want that. But Gant is like most other people-- he has no concept of someone not wanting what he does."

There's an uneasy shudder in his voice, and he stops-and-starts again, shaking. "He has dirt on  _me_ ," he says. 

I think about the report still on my desk, thankfully obscured from his view by my computer.

"It's dirt which Gavin would probably kill me for."

And that's where I'm frozen and I feel ill. Something about my expression must give away that I know what he's talking about, because he hunches and hides his face in his hands, and there's a muffled sob which escapes between them.

"I was one of the ones who raped Engarde," he says, still hiding behind his hands. "Gant set it up... and I just remember..." There's a sob from him-- "what I'd always said-- that I couldn't..."

He's sobbing, now, loud and horrible. I reach across the desk and gingerly hand him the box of tissues I've got sitting there in case anyone dares need them. Those occasions are rare.

White ignores the tissues.

 

I wish he hadn't told me. 

I'm not surprised, but I'm disgusted, and I'm distracted from the original conversation topic.

"Do you understand that I'll need to talk to Parke about this and you may be facing further charges?" I ask him.

I'm not a priest. If he'd confessed this to a priest, he could seek forgiveness and not justice. 

He nods slowly. "I have carried the weight of that with me for years," he says. "But now you must understand why Gavin is a potential threat to my life, don't you?"

I don't know about that. I'm frozen and angry-- I didn't need to hear that, and now the concern's gone back to Engarde. 

I should be worrying about the more immediate problem.

"Does this have anything to do with this bad incident you're telling me is destined to happen?" I ask again.

"I didn't want to--" he says. "Not really, once I'd realised what I was doing, and Gant--"

"Mr. White--"

"Someone's going to kill me," he murmurs. "Either Gavin or Engarde because of what I did, or Gant because I know too much or--"

"Was Gant involved?" I ask gingerly.

"Gant's involved with everything," he continues-- "And he's involved with this."

"What's this  _this_ , Mr. White?" I ask, exasperated. 

"They've got something planned," he says. "They know the way this place runs, they have staff letting them in on things--"

He pauses, and sighs, catching his breath and looking about wildly. "It's Miles Edgeworth, isn't it?"

 _There's_  a name I wouldn't have expected anyone to mention... anyone beyond Gavin, at least.

"Edgeworth?" I ask tentatively.

"Yes," he says stubbornly. "Miles Edgeworth-- the prosecutor."

He looks nervous and horrified, and I see him glance down at the desktop. "That poor kid-- and he was a good kid-- I knew Miles back in my heyday-- a true professional, a decent man, a--"

"I don't know what you're talking about, Mr. White."

He looks uncomfortable and then speaks quietly, head in his hands. 

"I wanted to take down Gant and von Karma," he admits. "If I'd done it on the outside, I could have... and I might have had some leverage when it came to dealing with that--" his teeth are gritted and he spits out the next few words-- " _Fey_  woman." 

I'm not sure what he's rambling about any more. 

"After what happened with-- with what we did to Engarde--" there's a remorseful crack in his voice-- "I knew the whole thing was about Gant evening the scales, tipping them in his favour. If I spilled any of his secrets-- namely the big one-- he could very well do the same to me. And any more black marks against my name and more court appearances would have counted against me, wouldn't it?" He's shuddering. "Gant's wanted me dead for a long time-- you remember that arsonist, Dean O'Dewitt?"

I freeze. O'Dewitt was murdered by person or persons unknown about seven years ago. I remembered O'Dewitt all too well-- he protested his innocence and argued that if he'd had the lawyer he'd initially seen about his case, he wouldn't have wound up behind bars. 

The worst of it with O'Dewitt was that I actually believed him to be innocent. His behaviour and personality didn't match the typical profile of an arsonist, and he was a well-adjusted, reasonable kid who appeared to have merely been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

O'Dewitt seemingly disappeared from the unit one afternoon and the unit went into lockdown because it was believed he'd escaped. 

His body was found in the local tip several days later.

"I remember O'Dewitt," I say with a nod.

"There's no evidence," White says with a shudder, "And it's probably too old to do anything about, but..." He's playing with his fingers, twisting them in and out of one another so the knuckles turn white-- "Gant and Tigre were hoping I'd be suspected of his murder." 

Just telling me that much terrifies him. "I was working in the waste removals at that time; Tigre was in the mailroom next door for a while-- I didn't realise at the time but in hindsight-- they were trying to set me up for it." 

My mouth feels dry. 

"Do you  _know_  that for a  _fact_?" 

"Suspicion is enough for me," he says. "I was in the way-- Manfred was dead, and with me gone, he had nothing to worry about-- his secrets..."

 

"Do you realise I'll have to talk to Parke about  _this_?" I ask him tentatively. My brain is screaming at me:  _Shut up, shut up..._

" _Yes_ ," he says insistently.

I don't like the way he's confessing everything like this. It's the action of a man who feels he has nothing to lose, yet he's telling me nothing of substance.

"Gant's held it over me for years," he continues. "He taunted me with it, he knew he was pushing me..."

I don't say anything. I wonder how long I could let him sit there and ramble, breaking off onto different topics and spilling the beans about so much more. I scribble down a few idle notes.

I'm starting to see why he wants to go into solitary or witness protection.

"I have regrets about things I have done whilst in here," he says slowly. "This place has changed me..." The resigned, old-man look comes back into his eyes. "I've been involved with... some of the worst things imaginable." He's clutching himself now. "There are times when I can't sleep at night, when I wonder why I'm being kept alive, if this  _existence_  is punishment for what I've done."

He looks at me again, and there are tears in the corners of his eyes. "On the outside, I lived with a sense of honour, and when I didn't, I hid it behind achievements and extravagance."

He sounds humbled, but humbled because he's broken. "I wanted fast cars and skyscrapers and a portfolio to talk about, doctor, women and art and... now I'm just reduced to wanting to sleep well at night."

He lifts a finger and wipes a tear from down the side of his nose. I offer the tissues towards him again and he ignores me.

"I could offer you something for the sleep, Mr. White," I tell him. "And we could make some regular appointments to help you move beyond--"

"I'm moving beyond it, doctor," he says. "But I'm telling you this because-- I don't like my chances." The panic has left his voice entirely. "Someone's going to kill me," he says. "Like the message Gant left me in the book said-- my number"-- he smiles wryly-- "is up."

"There are always solutions, Mr. White," I offer. "We can organise for you to go to a safer area and..."

He smiles, sadly, calmly. "I realise that I can't fix any of the things which have already happened at my hands," he says solemnly. "I realise that I'm cornered." A brief pause from him. "My only request is that you see to Miles Edgeworth's safety while he is on the grounds of this prison." He looks determined and serious.

"Why the concern about... a prosecutor?" I ask him.  _And where the hell did he get the idea that Miles Edgeworth was arriving at the prison?_  

Something has gone wrong with the communication system which White believes in so much. There is no plan for Edgeworth to arrive here; but I'm loath to reveal that just now. Not telling him might allow me to find out more about this plan he's wanting to talk about, which he's too scared of explaining.

"Miles is a good kid," he says again. "And I believe that he's another of Gant's intended targets."

I raise my eyebrows. "What makes you say that, Mr. White?"

He stares at me, disgusted and silent. "It was the way Gant and von Karma  _reminisced_  about him," he says. "I knew some of the details-- as I'd stated earlier, I had information which they were paying for me to keep quiet out in the real world..." He shakes. “I saw the video: one of my staff had access to Gant’s home computer and there was a video with a suspicious title that turned up—I knew what happened—what they _did_ to him… I-I didn't do anything for him then," he says quietly. "I was going to, at some stage, but..."

I'm not sure what he's trying to tell me. 

"The way Gant and von Karma talked about him-- they knew I was uneasy about it, that I knew what they were talking about, they held it over me as though they could get away with it... it disgusted me, it made me keep my distance-- that was their leverage... Mine was that they believed me to have a copy of the video…" He trails off again. "I've told you, doctor-- Gant is an evil man. He would stop at nothing to silence someone-- with me it was enough to use psychological tactics, but for Miles Edgeworth..."

"Why do you believe he'd wish to target him?" I ask. "Why now? Did he  _say something_?"

 

"He said enough," White says-- "That he knows Edgeworth is arriving here today, that he's apparently after more information on other crimes which may have been committed; wasn't he the one who put Plan away for...?"

"Plan?" I ask. I'm confused. I don't remember the legal details; they're none of my business. 

"Gant's new recruit," he says. "His replacement for Engarde." He spits the words out angrily. "I've avoided them, I've stayed out of it this time-- as I said, doctor, I'd just like to do my time peacefully and have a good night's sleep."

I'm worried about him, about these scrambled half stories which don't go anywhere, about the flawed plan-- where the  _hell_  did White get the idea that Edgeworth was visiting today?-- and about his depression and paranoia catching up with him.

"What can we do for you, Mr. White?" I ask him.

"Just look after Miles," he says softly. "He was always a good kid who treated me well, right up until the end. A thorough professional." He smiles wryly and I can't figure out why.

"I'll... see to it that happens, Mr. White." I don't know  _how_ , but I know Parke and I will be exchanging words once he's out of here.

"I mean that," he continues. "He's... seen a lot."

I nod uncertainly.

"Would you like something to help with the sleeping?" I ask him. "Some--?"

He shakes his head. "I'll be all right," he says. He's holding his head high and there's a dignified, tough sort of resigned in his expression. He walked into the prison with that look on his face, I remember.

"I can have a talk to Parke and Dale," I tell him.

He smiles again. "Lily," he says. "She's been good to me."

There's a nasty sort of cryptic in his words, and when there's a knock on the door, I excuse myself.

"I suppose my time is up," he says.

I nod. "I'm going to have a talk to Parke on your behalf, Mr. White, and see what we can do for you." It's been a harrowing, confusing forty-five minutes. "I'd like to thank you for your honesty and the advice you've given me," I say. "I'll make sure it doesn't get traced back to you."

He gives me a broad, disbelieving smile. "Thankyou, doctor," he says in a voice that I can't trust.

It feels like this is my replacement for the difficulty of Kristoph Gavin, and it's... troubling. At least Gavin and I could have a reasonable conversation, there wasn't the need to decipher everything he said. Gavin was troubled, but... not like this. It almost makes me miss the peaceful and unrelated conversations about his past, rather than White's horrible present.

 _Almost_.

Hamm opens the door and escorts him out, and a moment later, I'm ringing Parke, desperately wanting the sense of illness I have creeping through me to go away. I look at the postcard on my desk. Beautiful white beaches. Paradise. Freedom. A world where conspiracies and prison rape and secrets and half-truths don't exist for awhile.

Imitating Parke's trademark urgency, I hear the phone pick up and I speak his short, sharp language. 

"Parke-- we've got a problem here."

 

 

 

"We can't put the whole unit onto lockdown because White was sounding..." Parke stops there. I can understand the edge in his voice, the discomfort, the fact that he's about to use some sort of term to describe that White's sounding less than balanced.

"White was considerably concerned," I insist. "He's admitted involvement in other criminal activities and..."

"Like what?" Parke's shortness suggests that something else is on his mind. 

"An assault on Matt Engarde."

 

" _Shit_." He stops for a moment. "Did he name anyone else?"

"No other participants... but Gant was  _involved_."

"Aw,  _fuck_."

"It gets better."

"Yeah?" He doesn't sound hopeful. He sounds apprehensive. " _What?_ " he asks suspiciously.

"Remember Dean O'Dewitt?"

There's a groan on the end of the line from him. "There's a name I didn't want to hear ever again," he mutters after a bit. "But thanks to Waverley and now this..."

"Waverley?"

"You know how Waverley's got some hate out on someone or another," he grumbles. "And he hated O'Dewitt as much as the rest of them when the kid was alive, and after he's died, he sanctified him." The growl in his voice is nervous and low, like a threatened wolf. Parke wasn't yet in management when O'Dewitt's body was found, but the whole thing was a nightmare in terms of the press and the governor getting involved. A nightmare like that doesn't go away quickly. 

He stops. "What  _about_  Dean O'Dewitt? We never found the guy that killed him..."

"White may just have the answer."

" _White?_ " he asks. "Jesus--  _Why?_ "

"Not White," I say. "Someone wanting to set White up, knowing his life sentence would probably turn into a death sentence for another murder."

Parke sighs. "I don't have time to be dealing with this," he mutters-- "And that shrink's just turned up for round two of Gavin versus Gavin..." 

I'd forgotten about the mediation. The bustle and distraction of the day; White's confessions-- got in the way. 

"Apparently something  _else_  is going to go down today," I tell him. "That was White's reason for coming up to see me."

"Did he tell you what it  _was_?"

"No... but they believe Miles Edgeworth is making a show and it's... some kind of a  _revenge thing?_ "

"He didn't tell you  _what_?"

"The most I got from him is that he thinks Gant wants Edgeworth dead... apparently he had some information concerning Gant and von Karma's interaction with him," I tell him.

"Well Edgeworth's not coming anywhere  _near_  the place today, so we'll deal with that when it becomes an issue," Parke says straightforwardly. "Though I'd like to know where the misinformation is coming from."

I'm staring at my computer screen. My screensaver was put on here as a joke by deNong on one of the rare occasions that I saw him back when he was in Parke's role. It's a black background with a picture of a broken chain and the line:  _Dysfunction: The only consistent feature in all of your dissatisfying relationships is you_  written beneath it. 

"I don't know," I say. "But we  _really_  need to do something with White-- he was visibly distressed and..."

"Do you have a professional opinion, doctor?" he asks quickly. He sounds the type of overwhelmed where he'd give me a two-week vacation to the Bahamas in five star accommodation and a pony if I would just get off his back.

"I think he needs to go somewhere by himself for a bit to calm down. He's really worried about being seen as a rat, and after what he's told me, he has good reason to." 

I hear Parke hiss on the other end of the phone, sucking his breath in, pissed off yet resigned. "There's no room in protective and he can't just get isolated..."

"The hospital wing?" I ask.

"Would be fine if he was  _ill_  rather than chickenshit," Parke grumbles. "If I send him there without so much as a case of the sniffles, everyone  _else_ 'll want in." 

"He needs  _something_ ," I say, exasperated.

"Solitary it is, then."

"And put him on obs." I don't know why I say it so automatically. Something about White's demeanour bothered me. "Just randoms-- he's not in a good state of mind."

"He was fine when he was down there last time."

"My professional opinion," I say stiffly, "Is to put him on observations."

 

" _Fine_." He doesn't sound pleased, but I can hear a shuffle in the background. "I'll assemble the paperwork as you come down-- seems our visitors have arrived and they're just going to collect Gavin now."

"Okay," I say to him. "See you in five?"

"Sounds good." I hang up and fall back into my chair for a moment and close my eyes. I'm surprised I don't have a headache coming on just yet; it's been a hectic day, I've managed to forget about the mediation, and I was meant to be down at the visitor's section giving my stand-in for Gavin a handover. At least I can get back to the office and clean up the paperwork and try to figure out what the hell's going on with White when I return.

I throw on my jacket-- professional appearance and all-- and close the office door behind me, listening for the click of the lock. I'm running a bit late-- from across the floor I can see Hamm bringing Gavin down; he looks calm and contented and he hasn't seen me yet.

I wonder what he's going to make of my replacement. 

I see Roy looking about, a combination of nervous and downcast, eyes towards the floor and a frantic, scared movement to his walk. Evidently he's still shaken from his involvement in the fight this morning. 

"You all right?" I ask him.

He looks terrified and guilty, like he's been caught at something; a fight-or-flight reaction.

"Yeah," he says uncertainly. 

"Did you fill in an incident report for this morning's drama?" 

He nods silently and walks alongside me, saying nothing.


	10. The Art of War

Roy's probably coming off break and waiting for everyone to return from work placement, I suspect; something which will be happening in a few short moments-- the visitors' section is reasonably quiet; in one room Denham's sitting in on a visit with someone from protective, a man who I've only seen  _around_  but have never dealt with in person; the door to the secure room is open, and a glimpse from the distance allows me to see a very tense looking Klavier and Wright not too far away.

A man I've never seen before is standing next to Gavin and Hamm, and they're in quiet conversation.

"I'm sorry I'm late," I offer, looking over the three of them. "I got a bit caught up in the office earlier."

Gavin's eyes twinkle and he smiles at me. "Hello," he says, perfectly demure. "I was just meeting your replacement for today." There's amusement in his voice. "Not in the mood for some family bonding, Doctor?"

I don't react to him, but give the other doctor a nod. "I see you've met Kristoph Gavin."

"Yes, yes." His voice is about as warm as a block of ice. I don't know if he's scared, or if he doesn't care about his client, if he's moved beyond that place of caring or is just impersonal because he doesn't  _know_  Gavin yet. 

Maybe it's safer for him to not know him; he can see whatever unfolds today on a clean slate.

Hamm glances around at us, as though he's superfluous, before we hear the rustle in the background of inmates moving through the unit and past the vistors' area.

 

  
There are always a few cursory glances, sometimes inmates walk past and make threatening faces or hand gestures in attempts to disrupt the visits or satisfy their curiousity. I try to ignore them.

"Mr. Gavin and I have been working together for the past six or so months," I tell the other doctor. We haven't even introduced ourselves. 

"It _has_ been a while, hasn't it, doctor?" Gavin smiles sweetly.

I don't like the way the door is hanging open; it's out of the routine, I know we've got unusual circumstances here today, but they pick up on any diff--

"Hey, Wright, you dog! I fucked your daughter!" 

It's Engarde's unmistakably teasing voice, he's spotted Phoenix Wright from a few paces away and can't resist the urge to rile him up, calling out to him from within the mob passing us.

I'm concentrating on Gavin and the other doctor when it happens, when I see a blur of blue as Wright races out of the visitor's room, wired up and furious, in the direction of the catcall. Laughter follows him as a mob of inmates rush towards us to see what's going on, the doctor next to me drops his clipboard, someone is knocked against me and I turn to see who it is; there's a slam behind us as the door shuts, there's yelling and thumping and then there's the white-hot searing cry of the duress alarm dominating everything. It happens at the speed of sound.

 

"Lockdown!" I hear a male voice bellow over the noise, and somewhere not too far away Engarde's whisked away, there are staff running towards us as though ready to break up something, a prisoner I've only interviewed once before is moving towards us, and my blood is pulsing, hot and angry and terrified. 

Gavin has dropped to the floor in response to the screech of the duress alarm, he's crouched down, curled up and his hands are over his ears; my initial thought is if the other prisoners have seen him like that, he's only offered himself as a target. He looks terrified. 

The other doctor is looking bewildered, and it seems that most of the inmates have been effectively herded off back to the unit. In shocked horror, I watch as the alarm is switched off and Lily rushes over to us.

"Lockdown, Gavin," she says. He stands and follows her without a word, visibly shaken.

In the distance I can hear jeers and laughter; an incident like that is always a bit of excitement for the inmates. In the confusion I have no idea where Wright has disappeared to. 

"Headcount!" I hear yelled from the section of the unit where the cells are; doors are being opened and shut, there's swearing; somewhere in the rukus, the visit with Denham was ended, and the door's shut, and a frantic-looking man in a suit is waiting to be collected and escorted out.

The visitor's room where  _their_  visit was supposed to take place...

In the chaos, I've forgotten about Klavier. I saw the door slam shut in the middle of everything not long after Wright ran off; as though summoned, Wright races back towards us, breathless and panting.

"Where's Gavin?" he asks. His face is red and he looks nervous. 

"On the unit," I say automatically as I realise in amongst the panic he's talking about the  _other_  Gavin."Klavier Gavin is..."

It feels like we're surrounded by staff. The visitor from the room next door as looking frantic, and Denham makes a hand gesture to suggest that he'll have to wait.

"We can't find four of them," Hamm says through gasps.

"Which four?"

 

"Gant, Plan, Tigre and Callander."

 

"Shit."

Everyone glares at me when I swear, including the new doctor who gives me a withering glare of disdain. I ignore him as more people run towards us.

"We can't find..." Lily starts--

"We  _know_." 

We're staring at one another in panic for less than a second but it feels like a minute, and then Denham decides to open the secure visitors' room. He tries the key and turning the handle, and gives it a wrench and a shove.

"I can get the key in," he grumbles, "But I can't get the son-of-a-bitch to turn."

Then comes the startling movement from the window; the venetian blinds rising a little bit, and then dropping less than a moment later.

Lily screams.

"That's Gant," she says in monotone only a moment later, her eyes widened and fixated on the spot. "He's... in there..."

"Someone's locked the door from the other side and snapped the key off in the lock," Denham says. "Where's Gavin?" He's not sounding pleased. “Where the fuck did they get a _key_?” From the vantage point we have outside the room, we can't see anything. The visitor in the next room is punching against the window, now, scared and wanting to leave.

"Someone call deNong and Parke," Lily says quickly, "I'll get this guy and the lawyer out and--"

In the confusion, we've forgotten that the lawyer is standing next to us, looking out of place with his tidy blue suit and spiked hair. 

"Thankyou," he mumbles, his eyes on the door. "I didn't even see anyone go in there and..." he sounds terrified. 

"Come on-- Wright, isn't it?" Lily asks him good naturedly-- "We'll get you up and--" She starts steering him towards the exit. My suspicion is that he won't just be escorted out, they'll ask him at the front desk for a statement.

There's a sickening thud from the other side of the door, enough to make Wright turn his head as he's a few paces away, and Lily grab his arm and walk more forcefully away.

"Shit," Denham says, looking ghostly white. " _Shit_."

 

The visitor in the other room is looking frantic. 

"Go get him out," Hamm says, "He didn't see anything-- I'll radio Parke and see where we go from here." 

They tell you that when you can see the whites of a man's eyes, he's terrified, but Hamm's are eerily dark, hollow-looking and most definitely abnormal. 

Was this what people looked like when the riot happened?

 

  
I unlock the visitor's room door-- the surprised visitor, a man in his forties who smells strongly of stale cigarettes, glares at me, his fear now turned to rage.

"My client has a right to see his attorney," he snarls. "That visit was ended prematurely and--"

"Take it up with management," Denham growls, shaking on the door again to no avail. There's a garbled message from Hamm's radio, I hear him say "Confirmed" and I lead the man towards the exit. 

"What the hell just happened?" he asks me once we're moving across the floor and towards the exit.

"Lockdown," is all I offer as I leave him with the desk jockeys.

  
For some unknown reason, I'm compelled to head back to the scene of the event, but in the minutes I've dropped off the lawyer-- the  _other_  lawyer-- I'm stopped by Denham. 

"No one's going in there," he says.

I raise an eyebrow. "'Cept the SORT."

My eyes widen. 

 

We don't bring the SORT in that much; they were brought in towards the end of the riot when nothing else worked, and when we've had particularly violent and resisting inmates we might get them to come down to help us out. It's rare, though, when the usual workers are unable to contain something. And it sends a wave of panic through the unit; the SORT team represent something dangerous: a loss of control. A last resort.

The SORT workers are the prison's on-call special operations workers. They're paid well and there's a culture of griping about the fact that they seem to get better pay and to slack off more for most of the time. A few years ago there was resentment amongst a few staff who applied for the extra training and didn't get it. 

But when we need them, we need them. They've got the training and the know-how to go places and do things the others can't. Towne's said they're different to the regular workers, which is perhaps part suspicion and resentment from the regular staff, part truth. The regular workers will try to negotiate. The SORT team is what happens when negotiations fail.

When the SORT team come in, the rest of us are to stand back and let them do their jobs; they've received the information and have worked out their battle plans; onlookers who can't assist are merely in the way. 

And a potential hazard, apparently.

I can't stop looking at the door, and neither can Denham, and I can tell by the look on his face and the quiver in his voice that he's apprehensive.

"Who called them in?"

"Parke gave the word," he says. "Not that I blame him-- there's not much else anyone can  _do_ \-- the bastards broke the key off in the lock." He twitches. "We don't know what they've got in there, the condition of Gavin; we don't even know how  _many_  of them are in there."

Suddenly another thought's occurred to me-- escape.

"Could someone have...?"

He reads my mind before I've finished the sentence. "We've got the desk jockeys checking the cameras and someone was sent out to patrol. There's SORT workers up near the gates so... escape's unlikely."

He looks at the door again and then turns to me. "I guess we'd better see what's happening upstairs," he says grimly. Part of me is curious. Another part of me just wants to see everything back to normal, order to reign again, Klavier Gavin to be in a decent state when he's removed from the room.

"C'mon," Denham tells me. I don't know if part of the reason he's encouraging me is because he's trying to work up his own motivation to get moving.

I've never been on the unit when the SORT team have arrived, so when what sounds like a second duress alarm starts screaming over the top of us and there's a barely-audible clatter of boots hitting the floor in the distance, I freeze. Maybe this is standard protocol?

"What the fu--?" Gone is Denham's easy-going personality; he's frantic now. " _Another_  one?" 

He races up the stairs as we see the SORT team in their rigid, unidentifiable black suits, half-walking, half-running onto the floor.

I turn to watch them arrive at the door when Denham grabs my arm. "East corridor," he says, sounding puzzled. "In solitary."

I don't think. I just run.

 

 

 

We're not the first on the scene; we're running on the adrenaline which comes with panic; we're lost in the moment-- unprofessional and frantic-- two duress alarms in the space of a few minutes, the SORT being brought in, and  _outsiders_  witnessing our loosening grip on the control of the place; it's a human response to chaos.

As I'm running alongside Denham, I hear a yell and a crash; the kind of momentarily deafening crack as though something beyond human has ploughed through that intended not to be broken.

I have no idea what is happening any more.

  
The corridor is full-- others have reached the end and White's cell before Denham and I have; a small crowd is clustered around the cell door. The duress alarm stops its echo as we step into the solitary wing; someone elsewhere has actioned that. 

In the space which was occupied with shrill beeping, there's now a quiet buzz amongst everyone, people on radios, a movement, and amongst it, my brain recognises a Code Blue called out.

 _Code Blue_ \-- someone's  _hurt_. Someone's  _out_. Someone's-- well, until it's legally confirmed by a doctor or medical staff-- it's funny that  _I_  could be the medical staff doing such a confirmation but everyone seems to forget about me at times like this--  _dead_.

I crane my neck from where I'm standing and try to get a better view-- a kneejerk reaction, my attention pulled towards a focal point. In actuality, I don't want to think about what's just happened. I don't want to know what the truth is for the moment. I don't want the truth to be the truth. Not right now, in this moment, when I'm still catching my breath and reeling from the disaster I've just emerged from.

"Can I do anything?" I ask no one in particular, and then Parke, sweat dripping down the side of his face, his breath in gasps, and a horrified look on his face, bursts through.

"Gant, Callander and Plan are being moved to isolation," he spits out-- "I need most of you on the unit doing obs or back in the staffroom for a debrief-- and Tigre's getting moved there  _now_  and --"

He looks at the crowd, pushing through everyone until he's at the cell door.

"Have the emergency team been called?" he asks, looking in towards what I can't see. His voice is hollow and cold and dispassionate as he turns back to the rest of us. "Right-- Dale and Waverley, the two of you stay here until the emergency team arrive-- everyone else back to the staff room and this wing isn't to be used until managerial authority's been given-- the commissioner's probably going to need a look--"

He's verged into rambling. 

I always wondered what Parke looked like under pressure. Not the easily-discarded sort of pressure which makes him sarcastic and cynical, the blanched-faced horror that this sort of pressure brings on. Parke can be surly and unimpressed, seemingly unconcerned and blunt and brutal, but now he looks spent and terrified, as though ready to ask god what else the universe has in store for him.

"Well?" he asks.

Everyone except Waverley and Lily turn to leave.

I'm watching, the debrief's going to come later on, I know, and I already have suspicions about what I'm going to be told.

When the crowd moves away and I can see the cell, I notice a ragged section of bed sheet tied to the top railing on the bars, hanging there, torn and still. Seeing that much is haunting.

  
Those were the hanging points even  _inmates_  were aware of.

I swear under my breath as I walk back through to the staff room, the reality still not having settled, my mind somehow avoiding the key point.

I only saw Redd White an hour ago.

* * *

The unit is like a ghost town as we pass through; the inmates all know that  _something_  has happened-- two duress alarms being set off in such a short space of time is out of the ordinary. And they get used to the routine here.

There are murmurs amongst cell mates; I'm unable to avoid glancing in at Engarde and Gavin-- perhaps it's the mind being drawn to familiarity, perhaps it's concern, perhaps it's a train wreck of a focal point I can't ignore. Gavin's aversion to the drama and movement and the duress alarm threw me; I wasn't expecting that sort of vulnerability from him.

 

He's sitting up on the bottom bunk, reading, his lips moving but his voice kept soft enough to go unheard by me. Engarde is lying across the bed, his head in Gavin's lap, a blank expression on his face. A quick glimpse at the book and the touching scene has taken on a strange feeling-- a sickly sweet unquiet sort of uneasy.

He's reading aloud to Engarde, his long pale fingers trailing through his cellmate's hair, a sweet, could-work-with-children smile on his lips.

Sun Tzu's  _The Art of War_  is no fairytale, and seeing the title gives me a weird, ominous sense that somehow, Gavin is planning  _something_. 

Catching my eye for a moment, he pauses, his lips stopping mid-sentence, his fingers ceasing movement also. He smiles at me warmly and a sense of ill-ease passes through me:  _great_. In addition to the unit resembling bedlam in the true sense, I have the smiling assassin to talk to next week.

Engarde looks up to see what he's smiling at and before his eyes meet mine, I've moved away.

  
I can hear quiet yelling from towards one of the isolation rooms; Furio Tigre's volume has been toned down by the soundproofing-- and I give a nod to Roy who who standing at the door, clipboard in hand, looking bored. 

  
The mood in the staffroom is sombre. It's packed, too, and a few of the SORT team are still there, a couple of faces I don't recognise, clutching mugs of coffee. Parke's already talking about getting incident reports done and the need for some changes around here.

It's amazing how quickly everything has happened and been pulled into line. We're like an army of ants trying to salvage what's left of a disturbed and damaged nest.

"...and we need to get down to the bottom of what's happened today  _very_  quickly," Parke's saying. "The solitary wing has been declared a crime scene for the moment, but they'll be out in a few hours and..."

His words pass through me. Denham and I glance at one another; it's funny the bonds you make with others through nothing more than being in the same place at the same time.

"Will there be an inquiry into...?" Someone asks. 

I hear Parke sigh and he's fading out on me again.

Just over an hour ago, I was assuring Redd White that I'd be ensuring his safety no matter what-- and now, somehow, the recommendation-- observations and solitary confinement-- have failed him.

It's not as though we've never had a death in prison before, but suicide-- an apparently preventable death-- always causes everyone to react a bit differently than when it's a more standard assault or an accidental death or an overdose. Suicides and executions were the taboo, silence-inducing deaths; there's no accident to suicide, but a cloud of emotion and reasoning behind it. 

"I suspect the solitary wing will be refurbished next," Parke tells us somewhere over the rest of the noise. "As for everyone here-- you all worked well together. You all did what you could-- we had two major incidents go down and--"

My brain is working overtime, ignoring the obvious concern and focussing on White's statements to me. There was a weird sense of calm at one point, as though he'd already made his decision-- he was as convinced as Gant's book messages were, that his number was up. 

"So White necked himself after the duress alarm went off?" Denham asks glumly. 

 _Necked himself_. People don't mean to sound heartless; it's prison lingo, it's a way of dulling the reality a little bit. It's not pleasant, but you become accustomed to it. 

"I guess he got some privacy," someone else says. "He was on obs and all..."

There's a murmur of talk about changing procedure as there always is after a death on the floor, of putting suicidal inmates on constant observations and not leaving them unattended at all, of--

"Why did he have a sheet in there anyway?"

"We can't not give them bedding-- that's inhumane--"

"Give them  _too_  much stuff and they wind up with an arsenal like Gant had."

"It could have been White's--"

There's a sharp disconnection of silence then. Even when talking about the worst criminals in the state, it's still not cricket to speak ill of the dead.

"We need to figure out the significance of the contraba--"

White  _knew_  something was going to happen. He'd told me that Gant had told him as a means of testing him-- and he'd thought the  _thing_  involved Miles Edgeworth.

Why Edgeworth?

 _Because he liked Edgeworth. Because he knew Edgeworth. Because Edgeworth and he had had a working relationship to a degree, where they were familiar with one another and because..._

He felt guilty. He knew details of unseemly behaviour towards Edgeworth and he'd sat on it until the time came to blackmail them and--

Edgeworth had visited White in prison. Perhaps there'd been a level of mutual respect-- or understanding, or-- 

The door opens, and Lily and Waverley walk in. Lily's face is red and puffy, her eyes bloodshot as though she's had a cry. Waverley looks stoic and unimpressed.

"We got sent back here by deNong and the medicos," Waverley explains as Lily sits down to take a seat. "They've said the area's free once forensics have gone through it..."

He's sounding pissed off. 

"Thankyou," Parke says weakly.

"And I was meant to go home at  _one_ ," Waverley snaps at him, "So any of this touchy-feely debrief psych crap will have to wait til next shift."

He looks at Parke, thoroughly pissed off. Everyone else is too shocked to say anything.

I think about Dean O'Dewitt, found in the tip, and White's knowledge of his death. I wonder how many secrets I never found out about, about what White did take to the grave with him.

I wonder if Gant knows-- he probably doesn't.

I wonder how the other inmates are going to react.

"You can go, now," Parke says, cold and annoyed and insincere. "Thanks for staying back."

Lily looks stunned, her mouth starting to fall open as Waverley stomps out of the room, apparently oblivious to Parke's irritation.

"Now that  _that's_  taken care of..." Parke starts up-- "We're going to get some debriefs set up in smaller groups throughout the week, and one-on-ones for those of you who worked intensely with White, and those of you who might need to talk about it. We understand that suicide is..."

Why did White think that Edgeworth was arriving at the prison? Obviously his concern for Edgeworth was based on guilt and some level of affection-- he felt guilty for what he'd had to keep secret, and he'd come to like the man. Gant, possibly, was aware of this and exploited it.

But did Gant-- or anyone else-- know that White was going to kill himself?

I can feel my mind rehashing the same details over and over again, trying to piece them together. I've missed something-- unless it was something White never told me to begin with...

"Doctor Smeer-- you've possibly seen Will around-- he's our backup psych at the hospital-- should be able to--"

 _Did Gant_  know about the visit? Was whatever happened-- and what  _did_  happen?-- a case of mistaken identity?

"Excuse me."

Everyone looks at me; I've spoken out of turn, I've shattered Parke's monologue.

"Yes, doctor?" It's Parke. He looks at me, weary and confused, as though I should understand why I won't be doing occupational debriefs-- I'll be busy unravelling the thought processes behind the drama today. I'll be writing reports. I'll be covering everyone's asses if there's an inquiry into the death of Redd White-- which there probably won't be.

"What happened-- during the  _visit_  which caused the first duress alarm to be sounded? After the SORT team arrived?"

The drama of White's death has been dropped momentarily and there's a buzz of discussion around the staffroom. 

"I was getting to that," Parke says. He sounds deflated and stares at us. "I suppose I should get to that now," he continues. "As you all know, Tigre, Callander, Plan and Gant locked themselves in a visitor's room today and--"

The gasps from around the staffroom suggest that not everyone  _did_  know about that, but Parke ignores it. 

"How'd they lock the door?" someone asks suspiciously.

"That matter is under investigation as we speak," Parke says. 

 

 _Roy_. The way he was looking down at the floor, intently and serious-- had he been looking for a lost key?

"Don't those doors lock from both sides though?" someone else asks. "So you're saying one of the prisoners had a  _key_?"

There's a murmur of discontent.

"The matter," Parke says tightly, "Is under investigation." His voice is tight and rings of an authority that's not going to give.

"As things now stand," he says, "We have four men in isolation cells and we're watching them until they're ready to talk." He sighs. "I must commend the SORT team for effectively dismantling their situation and keeping them separate from one another-- at this stage, they probably haven't collaborated and come up with some sort of story." He looks over at the SORT officers in their black riot gear and nods. "The information we have so far-- and might I remind everyone that this is in strict confidentiality-- is that an incident occurred when some inmates attempted to disrupt a professional visit this afternoon. Four of the inmates involved managed to barricade themselves in a secure visitor's room and--"

 _And what of the visitor?_

"There was no one  _in_  there, though--  _was there_?"

Ruth Venn's another new recruit. She's a sensible, no-nonsense type of woman who looks more like she should be running a girl scout group or being a school nurse in a strict private school than she should be working here. She sounds aghast at the idea that such foolishness could occur.

"Unfortunately," Parke says slowly, "There  _was_  a visitor in the room, and he's now been moved to the emergency department of the hosp--"

"It was Klavier Gavin, wasn't it?" Field asks-- "Kristoph's brother-- the rock--"

" _That_  was the bit I was trying to keep under wraps," Parke says quietly, trying not to sound pained. "And under the confidentiality agreement everyone in this room signed when they started working here, I'd like to add that anyone talking about this--" I can already tell that Parke’s anticipated another threat: the media.

"Is he okay?" Towne asks.

Parke gives him an unimpressed glare. "He was sent to the emergency department of a major hospital," he says. "I don't know much more than that."

"He reportedly had a broken arm," one of the SORT officers says grimly, "As well as other injuries."

"He was in there for about fifteen minutes before the SORT officers were able to break up the siege," Parke says. 

I can barely think about what happened to White. I don't want to try and think about what might have happened to Klavier.

"Do you believe this was planned?" Field asks from the back of the room.

"At this stage, we're unsure, though timetables will be under review-- the fact that Wellington was able to taunt one of the other visitors-- which appeared to set the ball rolling for these guys..."

"It wasn't Wellington," I say, sitting up. "It was Engarde."

"Sorry." Parke looks flustered, and as though he's forgotten a minor detail in the mess. "Easy enough mistake to make." He chuckles nervously. "You're right though-- it was Engarde."

That's something else I'd forgotten: what was Engarde's role? Was  _he_  behind the plan? Did he know about Klavier's impending visit?

It makes sense that he would have. Perhaps he knew what was happening, and fed incorrect information to Gant to feed to White in order to...?  _No_. Engarde is manipulative, but...  _why_? 

The memory of his head in Gavin's lap, while Gavin read to him pops into my mind. Perhaps he's fallen under Gavin's spell. Perhaps he owes Gavin for something.

Parke's voice is a muted muffled, underwater rumble in the background.

"Has anyone talked to Engarde yet?" someone asks.

"He was just taunting the other visitor," Hamm says. "It was that lawyer who put him away-- he was pissed off at seeing him again-- Engarde wasn't involved."

I'm not certain about that, but Parke doesn't want to go down that path yet. 

"Okay," he says. "At this point, there's not much else to tell you-- just that there are going to be some inquiries taking place so if you see investigators on the unit, you'll know why. Also-- some areas will be off-bounds for a while but hopefully we'll be able to get everything up and running as soon as possible-- right now there's not much else to talk about."

I can't help but disagree with him.

 

 _______________________________________________________________________________________

 

 

"Where is he?"

I look up, startled and nervous. Up until that moment, I'd been preparing myself to go home, to get in the car and listen to some light-hearted radio countdown program in the car, to drive a half mile and relax. Put my feet up and pour myself a drink. 

But seeing a frantic, furious man in a magenta suit in front of me has put all that to an end.

" _Who_?" 

Miles Edgeworth doesn't look pleased. His mouth is a grim, tight line, making his lips look even thinner than usual, and his hard grey eyes are like daggers. "Who do you think?" he snaps. 

I look at him blankly.

"He went in there  _hours_  ago and I haven't seen nor heard from him," he says. "And I saw an ambulance leave-- if he was  _in_  that ambulance, I--"

I can't help but look at him, to take in his face, and think about what I know about Miles Edgeworth and how it now extends beyond what I've seen in the press and what he's told me about himself.

I feel sorry for him.

"Wright went in there three hours ago and no one's told me  _anything_." 

I can't help but be relieved. If Wright had been the one locked in the visitor's room, I don't know what I'd have said. If Edgeworth had asked about Klavier, I don't know what I'd have said either.

I feel myself sigh, my shoulders relaxing.

"There was an incident which occurred during the scheduled visit," I tell him. "And Wright is most likely still filling out paperwork related to--"

"Is he all right?" he asks. He's trying to keep a grip on himself-- literally and emotionally. One hand is gripping his other elbow for dear life, and beneath the acrid tone of his voice, there's a very obvious, distinguishable note of fear.

I find myself taking pity on him.

"You waited up there for three hours?" I ask incredulously.

"I had things to keep myself occupied," he says tightly. "And I  _know_  Wright has a propensity for getting himself into trouble."

"Would you like me to see how much longer he'll be?" I ask him.

He nods uncertainly, and we walk towards the front entrance. Given his professional standing, he has clearance to enter the prison and has done so before. "I can take you into the administration area and we can ask, if you like..."

"Thankyou," he says quietly. 

He walks alongside me as I open the door and we walk towards the control point desk jockeys.

"Edgeworth," one of them greets him with and he smiles slightly, in a manner that suggests he's not going to dignify the man by returning the greeting.

"I understand that Phoenix Wright is currently inside," he says dryly.

"Just over in the admin lounge, buddy."

The tight-lipped, narrow-eyed look on Edgeworth's face suggests that they are most certainly not buddies. 

"You wanna take him over, doc?"

I nod, and motion towards Edgeworth in the direction of the administration lobby. 

When we arrive, Wright is sitting in the foyer, concentrating on a small television set showing some sort of children's show. He looks tense and there's a cup of unfinished coffee at his feet.

"Who'd have thought I'd be visiting you in prison, Wright," Edgeworth says in monotone, and Wright looks up, his face breaking into a grin. "You didn't have to come in," he says.

"I  _waited_ ," Edgeworth says tersely. His voice is softer, relieved and affectionate. 

"Something went down while I was meant to be visiting Gavin," he says-- "And..." He's no longer easygoing. There's a horrible human silence in the room broken only with jaunty action music coming from the television. "They still want to ask me some questions..."

"I had Trucy ringing me to say that we're out of bread," Edgeworth tells him-- "I don't suppose--"

"My phone is still in the safe at control," Wright says. "I was moved up here after everything happened." His voice is shuddering.

" _What_  happened?" Edgeworth sounds serious and angry. "Did  _he_  do anything?" 

"No," Wright says slowly. His voice wobbles and he shifts slightly on his seat. "But... Klavier..." He looks at the television. "There was a news report on before and..."

 _So the media know_. I wonder how this one's going to get explained. 

 

I watch as a door from the other side of the room opens and one of the secretaries pops out, ready to motion Wright into the office but noticing Edgeworth in surprise.

"He's with me," Wright says nervously. "Can I go now?"

"We just need to get you to sign a few more things," she says. "If you'd like to come in--"

She nods to Edgeworth. "You might want to as well," she says gravely.

* * *

  
I don't head back to my car; I head towards the offices. The unit is quiet, still on lockdown as I pass through; inmates are talking amongst themselves; Armando, I notice, is reading something; Crescend is playing solitaire on the floor of his cell; everything is nice and  _quiet_.

Parke appears as I move to open my door.

"Can I've a word?" he asks.

I nod, and we step into my office.

  
He takes his usual seat-- the one my clients sit on-- and I look him in the eye, waiting for his  _word_.

"What a fucken mess," he says. He sounds deflated. "I've just had to write Roy up for failing to report when his keys went missing," he says. "He thinks someone grabbed 'em when there was that incident this morning." He sighs.

I sigh.

"He's a good kid an' all, and he's had a hell of a time since he came in, but...  _Jesus_. You lose your keys, you fucking well say something." 

I nod silently. 

"He said he didn't even know they were missing until just before the visit," he continues, "Apparently everyone  _else_  was opening doors for him and around him until then." 

"That would explain the way he was looking at the floor when I saw him," I offer blankly.

Parke looks up at me then, nervous. "Do you think this was  _planned_?" he asks. "Coz something isn't sitting with me-- there was that stuff you said White told you, and now this happens and..."

I shake my head. "I don't know any more," I tell him honestly. "I can't see why they'd attack Klavier, and White seemed to think they were after Edgeworth..."

"I don't know where the Edgeworth shit came from," Parke says. His brow's furrowed and he looks incredibly annoyed. "Funny-- I saw him just before when I was leaving admin..."

"He  _was_  on the grounds-- he was waiting for Wright in the carpark. He thought something had happened to him."

"He should have been more worried about his colleague," Parke says. 

I'm reminded of what Wright told me. 

"That's the other thing," I mention. I'm not pleased to be the bringer of bad news. "Wright was saying it's out in the media, that the news got a hold of Klavier going into hospital."

" _Shit_." His eyes are widened. "How much is out?"

"I don't know," I say. "But Wright mentioned it to Edgeworth-- he saw it on TV..."

"If I get stood down, I'm outta here," Parke says quietly. "I'll move up north; live the simple life or some shit. Grow oranges." He smiles, but it's a bitter smile. "Give me a good reference, hey?"

"They didn't fire deNong after the riot," I tell him. "They  _promoted_  him."

"The riot went for thirty hours. This has gone for..."

"Not even two," I say gently.

"Name one celebrity who was injured in the riot?"

I avoid that subject. "Maybe you just need to take a break," I offer, and his face hardens. 

"No way," he says. "Someone's about to cost me my job here-- and I'm not going down without finding out who-- and without making sure Roy's learned a thing or two about procedure."

I smile at him, one of those bitter, tired smiles. 

"We need to  _think_ ," he continues. "The motivation's not an issue-- Klavier Gavin was the one who put Plan  _and_  Callander away--"

"Why would Gant and Tigre get involved then?"

"To put those two in their  _debt_?" Parke asks. "Seriously-- I'm starting to believe the rumours that Gant runs this place."

"Why would he risk his standing with the staff for a couple of lowlives like them, though?" I ask. "It doesn't make sense."

"Maybe Gant got something out of it?"

" _What_?" I spit back. "The man's nearly eighty. It's not like he  _does much_."

"He's never touched anything chemical, he works out, he used to go swimming when the pool was open," he says. "He's fitter than most of the staff here, and he doesn't get into the usual scuffles the rest of them do."

 

I nod. "Okay, I see that-- but why attack Klavier Gavin?"

"Revenge?"

"On who? Klavier was only a kid when Gant was sent to prison. And Gant's never wanted revenge against anyone."

Parke pushes his elbows into the desk, and places his chin on his hands. "How did they  _know_?" he asks. "And why  _then_?"

"Opportunity?" I ask. "You know what they do-- they taunt and annoy each other in the visitor's section-- they've always done that-- and today one of them went too far and they saw opportunity."

  
"Yeah... I was wondering about him-- what made  _him_  jump out?"

"Wright, I guess." I shrug. "My mind keeps going back to Engarde on this, actually. There  _is_  a possibility he could somehow be involved here."

"Why Engarde, though? He's been behaving himself since..." He pauses, and stares at me. "No," he murmurs. "You don't think Gavin set him up to it, do you?"

"I was thinking that, too," I can't help but say. "But... unless Gavin is psychic and happens to be  _that_  influential..." The sarcasm in my voice is obvious.

"What if he  _did_ , though?" Suddenly my crazy dry humour isn't so funny.

" _How_? Apparently Gant despises him and--"

"What if he and Gant are in cahoots?"

That hasn't occurred to me. "I don't know why--"

"Maybe they are." Parke's looking excited. "Maybe the whole getting Klavier thing was a favour to  _Kristoph_  Gavin."

"But White was saying that Gavin wanted him dead because of something Gant had done to Engarde."

Parke looks nervous at the mention of White. "Do you think White's death had something to do with this?" he asks.

"I think White heard the duress alarm go off and supposed this big bad event had happened," I say. "He was adamant that Edgeworth needed to be protected..."

"Why Edgeworth?" Parke mutters.

"...And when he thought that Edgeworth hadn't been protected, that something _had_  happened to him, he couldn't live with himself?" I stop there. "That's the only explanation I can think of."

"So do you think White was set up by people who knew he'd do that, or...?"

"I don't know... I really don't." I catch a glimpse of Parke and wonder if he's as drained and tired as I am by now. The anger and usually sort-of upbeat-- no, not upbeat, but determined and optimistic-- attitude-- has gone. It's harrowing and strange seeing Parke like this.

"I guess the question is, then-- who would be benefiting because of what happened today-- an assault on Klavier, the unit on lockdown-- and White killing himself?"

" _Gant_ ," I say. "Remember when I told you what White said to me about having information on Gant...?" 

"What about Gavin-- and by association-- Engarde?"

"Why go after White, though?"

"Because of what happened to them?"

I stop again. "What do you mean,  _them_?" There's a weird feeling in the air. " _Them_?"

"Gavin was assaulted early into his sentence by four individuals who tried to--"

"He never named them," I point out-- "Just like Engarde didn--" There's a dry, sick feeling in my throat. "So you think this is an elaborate revenge plan?"

"Possibly," Parke murmurs, "And if my job's riding on this, I at least want to know  _why_  all this went down."

"I guess we'll find out when the investigation starts up." 

Parke looks at me, grimly determined. "The two of us know how good most of the usual suspects in this case are at manipulating and lying to authorities-- we have Gant, who if we're to believe the word around here, has staff in his pockets, we have Plan who managed to evade other charges which seem to be becoming apparent--" he doesn't elaborate on that and I don't ask him to-- "We have Tigre who is six foot one of pure unadulterated intimidation tactics, and we have Callander who is a chickenhawk who managed to fit in with society for god knows how long before doing the shit that landed him here."

I nod again.

"And then, on the other side of the ring, we have a lawyer who can't stop smiling at everything who spent seven years sweetly plotting murder and revenge and his narcissistic accomplice who won awards for his convincing performances." He doesn't look impressed. "Some guys who don't know these men aren't going to know what hit them when they start asking questions," he mutters, "But I fucking well  _need_  to find out what happened."

 

 

 

Redevelopment of the solitary confinement wing starts the next day.

It's amazing how quickly the dust is settled here; part of maintaining order involves continuing on as normal, taking everything in one's stride,  _settling_  the dust rather than waiting for it to settle itself.

The prison population has been advised of what has happened-- that Redd White is with us no more, that an  _incident_  on the unit brought the unit into lockdown, that the offenders are being dealt with. 

The offenders are still in isolation rooms and it is  _hoped_  that they will all cooperate with the investigation. Everyone else is free to go about their business. 

Parke and deNong called a meeting in the kitchen and explained the details to everyone; some murmuring happened when both White's death and the situation with the visit were touched upon, beyond that, not a great deal occurred. Everyone processes death and trauma in their own way, and for some of these men, neither death nor trauma are unusual circumstances.

Parke comes into my office afterwards, and sighs. "They've ruled White's death suicide," he says blankly. "I think they pushed it through quickly so we could start refurbishments."

"Yeah."

 

"The assault upon Klavier Gavin, though..." He sounds like someone who's just seen a ghost. 

We don't see ghosts here, and Parke's used to the everyday mundane horrors of prison life. Hearing that tone of voice from him is alarming on its own.

"What  _happened_  to him?"

"That's the bad news I came to break to you," he tells me. "I've got four men giving me equally implausible stories but they all add up," he says. "You're probably going to face an inquiry."

My heart stops. I wasn't expecting to hear that-- all the while things were happening around me, I was a witness-- I  _wasn't_  an active party. " _Why_?" I ask. My mind drifts to White. "I made some sound recommendations regarding White," I tell him-- "That he be placed in solitary and on observations..." My voice has dropped to something serious and angry. "It's not my fault if workers decide to leave their posts when a duress alarm goes off."

He nods. "It's not about that," he says. "It's about Callander."

I don't draw the initial connection, and I raise my eyebrows. "What about him? He's been on meds and behaving himself and..."

"That's the thing," Parke says nervously. "Apparently his medication wasn't monitored well enough--"

"I don't believe that," I snap back. "We upped the antipsychotics and he's been taking them. And then there was the Lyspiri--"

Parke's defensive and annoyed. "You know the first thing Furio Tigre said when he was interviewed this morning?"

"What?"

"He admitted to assaulting Klavier Gavin, and to being the inmate who snapped the key off in the lock. He was quite upfront and reasonable about that."

I nod, and there's a silence.

"There were three other men in that room," he says coldly. "And one of them is seventy nine, and the other is a foppish actor-- and  _Callander_  is a known sex offender."

"Who said anything about...?" My question is broken midsentence as my brain catches up with the conversation. "Oh _god_."

"Tigre's exact words, if I recall them correctly, were 'Yeah, I smashed that cunt but I didn't fuck him.'"

I feel that standard, queasy gurgle in my stomach. "He was...  _sexually assaulted_?" It sounds so removed and clinical and  _standard_  like that. Perhaps that's just a professional way we have, making horror into simple cold worlds so we can not think about the reality of what happened.

We need to so we can find out what happened, deal with the offenders, and move on.

Parke nods. "He was unconscious when they removed him from the room; they'd heard the SORT breaking in and had tidied up and prepared themselves for a fight," he says. "I only know about the assault because of Tigre-- Gant and the other two haven't mentioned it."

I raise my eyebrows. "He who smelt it, dealt it?" I ask wryly.

"I dunno," Parke says thoughtfully. "Tigre doesn't have anything like that on his record, and he was upfront about what he  _did_  do. He admitted to attacking Klavier and to throwing a chair at the SORT team and to the breaking of the key. Perhaps he didn't want to go down for the stuff he  _didn't_  do."

"Did he say who  _did_  do it?"

"Nope. And none of the others have mentioned it."

"Do you think they will?"

Parke shrugs. "I dunno," he says. "It might be some leverage if we can talk to them alone... and we'll learn one thing about it-- that if the stories match up perfectly, we have some honest criminals or that the whole thing was planned in advance."

I nod. Every now and then I wonder why Parke never went into the police force. 

I suppose it would be a different kind of stress... and that he'd have to put up more of a socially-friendly front than he does here. Here he gets to use deductive reasoning and he can grimace and swear as much as he feels like it.

"Anything you want me to do?" I ask.

I'm waiting to be asked to do assessments or to observe interviews or draft reports.  _Great._  Still, we're a team, and Parke's been good to me over the years. The least I can offer is a token gesture and a show of support.

Parke smiles slightly, and with that look he snaps back into professional prison-manager Parke. "I don't know just yet-- I don't have much say-so here right now; something might come up, they'll probably want to talk to you about the men involved and--" He stops, remembering. "Did you drop off a report about what you saw yesterday afternoon?"

"Not yet," I admit. 

He nods casually. "I've gotten them from Hamm, Towne and Dale right now and Roy did his when I had to have a chat to him... And Smeer did his this morning."

My look of confusion leads him to explain.

"Smeer was meant to be your stand-in," he says. "The other doctor."

  
"The one who  _doesn't_  get Gavin," I remind him.

  
"Not my doing," he says with a hint of a snarl.  _Don't push it, doctor._

I feel like I shouldn't be pushing a man close to the edge, so I don't continue the conversation in that vein.

"So," I say-- "The report; my eyewitness account."

He nods, and his gaze moves to the library book--  _White_ 's book-- on the end of my desk. "I guess you might as well return that, too." The smile on his face is a stiff grin. 

"If I get time to pop down to the library, I will," I assure him. 

"Thankyou, doctor."

 

* * *

I've written my report, I've finalised my report on Redd White and added it to his file and readied it to be returned to the managers and the archives; it's distraction and it's work which needs to be done. 

Parke's visit felt ominous; I can't quite shake the sense that I'm going to be dealing with Gant and his friends soon, and left to unravel the events of yesterday afternoon. 

And I have an appointment, scheduled in, my own crossing out having been overridden on my computer by higher-ups. 

I look at the name in the square and sigh.

 _Gavin_. It was a change made only this morning-- it makes  _sense_ , but I'm not particularly pleased about it. 

Then again, a part of me would rather deal with what I know and understand and have some familiarity with than the alternative. Much as I hate to admit it, it's been strange not seeing him for a period of time, and knowing that he's still been going about his business. 

It's strange to think of him being the one who has been an exemplary example of the model prisoner lately. Other than his adventures in paper-shredding those few weeks ago, and his passive-aggressive attempts at getting my attention, he's been behaving himself, it seems. He's been quiet. He's been doing his work, keeping to himself, reading and moving to his cell when asked, and when he's been there, there hasn't been a peep out of him. 

I think of him reading aloud to Engarde, stroking his hair, gentle and benign-looking. It's almost crazy to think that I've had a problem with him, that he manages to bother and grate at me and get under my skin.

I sigh. Fate and the system have caused our paths to cross again, and our story to continue.

 

 

 

Parke rings five minutes before the appointment, sounding flustered and angry. 

"These investigators are pissing me the hell off," he grumbles. "They don't know the floor, they come in and think they know how it all works and..."

In the background, I can hear what sounds like a saw grinding through metal.

"And the fucking reconstruction in solitary is giving me a migraine."

"I can imagine," I say calmly. Solitary is underneath where  _his_  office is located. He might have weeks of this to look forward to.

"Look, doctor-- I was ringing to mention something I forgot this morning-- I've had to schedule Gavin in to see you-- Callander's talking to the investigators right now, and really-- the guy's gonna need a debrief about what happened to his brother."

"Yeah," I admit. I can feel the tension in my voice. "I noticed you'd done that."

"I forgot to mention it this morning-- I've been dealing with a heap of-- oh,  _fuck_ \--" something I'm unaware of has happened in the background. "deNong's just radioed-- I'm sorry to lump this on you-- I'll talk to you later, okay?"

He's gone before I can protest. Not that I could have any way.

Looks like Gavin and I will be getting reacquainted.

He smirks as he's lead in, a curious little smile on his face, calmness in his step as he walks towards his chair. I almost feel guilty for my anger towards him;  _he_  doesn't seem to be especially annoyed with me.

"So we meet again," he says coolly. "Under much more pleasant, mutually consensual circumstances."

And then he comes out with something like that and I remember what he never told me about what he did to his younger brother.

"Please have a seat, Mr. Gavin," I ask stiffly.

He looks at the chair, as though recognising an old friend, and then sits.

"It's been awhile, hasn't it?" he asks. 

It has, and he hasn't changed. Anyone would think he's spent the last few months in a five star hotel given the relaxed attitude and the casual easygoing conversation. His eyes are still intense and focussed on me, his smile is still sweet and a perfect parody of warmth, his voice is still supple and smooth.

"It has," I agree with a nod. "How have you been?"

I can't deny the fact that there is some concern and sincerity on my behalf; I'd seen him crouched in fetal position with his hands over his ears, and while I don't know the explicit details of what happened to Klavier, I know he knows about what happened, and I can only imagine how helpless that could make someone like himself feel. The sympathy is genuine. I can't help it.

"Well," he says slowly, "A lot's happened since we last had a reasonable discussion."

"It has," I agree with a nod, "But yesterday's events..."

"Am I suspected of being involved?" he asks sweetly. "Because while I'm aware that Engarde was partially involved, I had no awareness of any desire for  _him_  to misbehave towards a visitor." He blinks. I want to believe him.

"Not only would that be  _rude_ , but I think we're  _all_  aware that if Engarde were to behave in an unsatisfactory manner, it would jeopardise his room allocation, wouldn't it, hmm?" His head tilts to the side slightly. " _I'm_  certainly encouraging Engarde to remain on his best behaviour because if he gets moved... well,  _I_  lose out, too, don't I?"

He makes a decent point, and he's back in usual form: managing to sweep any doubts about his behaviour away before anyone dare suggest them. 

I nod. 

"If you were thought to be involved, Mr. Gavin, you would probably be talking to the investigators right now," I tell him. "What I wanted to discuss with you was--" _Your complete lack of concern about your brother's assault--_

  
"I saw you yesterday," he says, still smiling. "You peered into my cell after the unit was placed on lockdown. You noticed Engarde and I on the bottom bunk and the two of us were both amused by the expression on your face." He chuckles. "Next time I'll make sure you have something to be shocked  _by_ , if you'd  _prefer_."

I try to ignore what he's just said, and the notion that I looked  _shocked_. Did I? I'm surprised at myself, and curious. 

"Mr. Gavin, we need to talk about what happened yesterday," I say quietly.

"Yes. I was most saddened to hear of White's passing." He sounds about as sincere as a landlord evicting a tenant for rent arrears.

 

I remember the fact that he was a lawyer. He had to sound sorry when he wasn't emotionally attached to things. It was part of his professional role; it was a way of winning his clients' trust.

The idea that he used it in his personal life, it seems, is bordering on creepy.

And the fact that he seems to be skating around the topic of Klavier has me curious. Denial, fear, genuine lack of concern-- or  _guilt_?

"That's not--"

"You don't think I had something to do with White choosing to end his life, do you?" he asks innocently.

"I don't think you need to be debriefed about that at the moment," I tell him stiffly. "I think we need to discuss what happened to your brother and how you're dealing with it."

There's silence in the room for the moment, and he inhales and exhales a few times; his prison overalls rising and falling with breaths.

"I heard about what happened to Klavier this morning," he says. For the first time in the months I've been working with him, he sounds genuinely confused. "Would it sound ridiculous if I were to admit to _not knowing_  how I feel about it?" 

There's a softness in his words, he sounds nervous and unsteady.  _Not_  guilty, I find myself thinking, just... unsure about his emotional standing, as though he can't name an emotion until he's had time to sit with it and understand it and analyse.

"It wouldn't be ridiculous," I tell him, "It's likely you're feeling a combination of things."

"I only learned of the assault upon him this morning. And then I had to go to the library."

"How do you feel towards the men who committed the assault?" I ask.

That's when his face changes to something more certain. "Gant is an animal," he says coldly, and he leaves it at that. "Tigre seems to be motivated by bloodlust and reputation; Plan is just a scared little follower who thinks he's more important than he is to Gant, and--" He stops, looking puzzled. "I'm actually surprised about Callander's involvement."

It's chilling the way he merely states the facts about the accused, leaving Klavier out of it entirely, as though the four of them had merely committed an act of vandalism.

"I meant more like-- how do I put it?-- how do you  _feel_  about what they  _did_?" 

He blinks. "It was to be expected, I suppose." He sniffs. "I do hope Klavier sues this godforsaken institution and buys that Hummer he's always wanted with the proceeds."

The jealousy in his voice is clearly evident. 

"You're conflicted, aren't you?" I ask gently.

"Yes, I am, doctor." He looks uncomfortable. "This is difficult for me: I do not  _like_  being conflicted-- I am, and always have been-- a man of absolutes."

"I suppose Klavier represents a lot of different things," I point out, trying to avoid one of those things-- "And your reaction towards violence in a place like this is going to be different to  _his_."

"I suppose you're right," he says stiffly. His fingers brush through a section of his fringe and he changes the subject. Slightly.

"Did you know that when Engarde was gang raped, he was left in the communal showers?" he asks softly. "With the showers turned on him as his attackers walked out. And then he was screamed at by a worker for leaving the water on." 

I've got this horrible feeling in my stomach that I can't quite understand.

"Engarde's situation doesn't have anything to do with this," I say quietly, "And..."  _Engarde is not your brother!_  I want to scream. I want to  _shake_  him-- his lack of a reaction, and then the reference to Engarde in such deadpan tones is disturbing me. 

"And what, doctor?" He looks unperturbed, but as though he can read my mind and knows the exact judgements I'm forming about him. "As well as having to process the fact that my brother has been assaulted, I've been conditioned into accepting brutality as a fact of life. I cannot help it if I appear overwhelmed or to not be reacting to an assault against the man who betrayed me and who gets to go home to my former assistant and protege."

 _There_. The bitterness. It's out. But it's not enough to convince me that he was involved in any fashion; it seems almost self-protective. 

"Is one of the feelings you're unsure about... something unpleasant?" I ask tentatively.

"You could say that, doctor."

 

His voice is a lot darker and more intense than what it usually sounds like, and I'm surprised; it's the old Gavin admitting that he doesn't like someone again, admitting to darker feelings with no smile on his lips and no sweetness and no sarcasm.

"Do you want to talk about that?" I ask gently.

"Not especially," he says. "It's difficult for me to discuss things that I don't understand. And Klavier..." He sighs, his eyes not looking into my face any more but the wall behind me.

I think he's about to drop it there, but he doesn't, turning the conversation on its head again. "I was as surprised as you were when he brought up that little bit of family history during the mediation," he says calmly.

This was  _not_  what I was wishing to talk about.

"I was angry at him for the way he brought it out," he says calmly and continuously-- "Especially since I suspect that at least some of his motivation was to horrify you, doctor, and to compromise our professional relationship."

I'm frozen, my face feeling as though it's stuck on a permanently surreal expression. 

"It worked, didn't it?" he asks confidently. "And I know Klavier well, that he's  _good_  at that sort of stage show; smoke and mirrors, causing drama-- I suppose he'd gambled upon you and I not having discussed him in depth."

He sighs, apparently unaware of the fact that my face hasn't moved. There isn't a single drop of sympathy or remorse in his voice; he's discussing it as though Klavier bringing it up was just some sort of...  _stunt_.

"Mr. Gavin," I say gently, "I  _was_  shocked by that revelation." I force the words out, and I force myself to remain calm as I say them. "The fact that you hadn't mentioned it beforehand and that your records suggest nothing about this, was, at least, a shock."

"You deal with men who do far less humane things than myself and you feel  _betrayed_  by me?" he asks. Suddenly, he's angry. 

The fact that he's more emotional now than when he was discussing Klavier's attack is interesting; perhaps it's subconscious, perhaps it's his anger suddenly rising and this is how he has to deal with it, perhaps it is--

"Do you  _realise_  that Klavier managed to manipulate the entire situation to his benefit?" he asks me in a snap. "That  _my_  side of the story was never requested?" He blinks.

I don't think I'd have wanted his side of the story, anyway.

"To be fair," I say coolly, "It never did come up in our meetings and I felt betrayed by the fact that--"

"By the fact that I didn't trust you?" He's cold and still and furious. "I do not like people having entitlement about me and what I  _owe_  them, doctor."

For some reason, that hurts. But I'm determined to keep a cool front.

"You never told me," I say again.

"It never came up in conversation." He blinks, his face softening a little. "And... I too felt betrayed by your lack of communication on the matter," he says quietly. "You seem to want me to open up and leech out all of my darker, interesting secrets so you can analyse and label me-- and yet you run at the slightest suggestion that I might not have told my entire life story?"

"Mr. Gavin," I say, trying to steer the conversation back on course-- "I cannot help you if you won't tell me things."

"Doctor," he says, smiling, relishing the argument once more-- "I can't tell you everything without time and without trust." He nods slightly, and there's a cool, funny look in his eyes. "I was starting to trust you," he says earnestly. "I didn't believe such a little thing would cause you to react in that fashion."

I shut my mouth to avoid sighing. He's frustrating me again.

"I don't  _know_  how I feel about the assault on my brother," he says. "I know how I feel about the individual compartments of the equation, about the various men who attacked him, about the visits themselves, and about Klavier-- but combined, I can't say I'm certain."

"I can assure you, though," he says, "That I am not feeling especially panicked or emotional about the situation, and I am of either no danger to myself nor anyone else as a result of the news." He nods, and then looks me directly in the eye. "Is that enough for you, doctor?"

I nod. I suppose it is.

He smiles then. "I trust you," he says quietly.

 

So he trusts me. So he  _says_. 

Maybe he  _wants_  to trust me.   
Maybe he's playing more mind games.

I don't know what to think as he's lead from my office, and I'm caught between a strange sense of nostalgia and something more ominous. I'm surprised at how blase and casual he was, especially since he'd initially seen my reluctance to work with him as betrayal.

I jot down a few notes and then the phone rings. It's Parke.

And there I was, readying myself for a coffee break.

* * *


	11. Smoke in the Air

"Two things have happened," Parke tells me as we're walking towards one of the interview rooms. 

"Only two?"

"Only two which concern you." I can see contractors measuring around what used to be the door frame on the secure visitors' room, and another walking out with the bent table Tigre ripped from the floor. It's unsettling.

He doesn't sound pleased; stressed but not terrified, drained but not exhausted. "We've got Gant now, the investigation squad wanted a psychiatric professional to observe him--" More likely, they wanted a third party in there who posed no threat and who Gant wouldn't want to act up in front of-- "while we're having a chat, and he seems ready to be released back onto the unit."

"Come again?" I stop following him, and he paces ahead of me before realising. "He's not getting charged with anything?"

"He didn't  _do_  anything," he says.

"That's what he  _says_ ," Parke tells me. He doesn't sound entirely convinced. "Gavin's regained consciousness and they're not sure when he's going to be ready to talk, and it seems all the media know about is the broken arm and the concussion."

I nod. "So you don't think he'll press charges?"

"He didn't last time," Parke says with a shrug. "Though I doubt there'll be an MTV special featuring the Gavinner's comeback tour with one of those jailhouse rock gigs." His voice is dry and unimpressed.

"So Gant's saying he didn't do it," I say thoughtfully. "Is there any...  _evidence_  suggesting that?"

"Plan's vouching for him," he says.

"Which could be due to fear."

This time, it's Parke who stops. "Why are you so convinced Gant did it?"

"Because if it wasn't Gant, that leaves Tigre, who admitted to his involvement, and Plan, who doesn't have a history of anything like that, and Callander who..."

"Is a registered sex offender."

 

"It's not just me," I say vaguely. "Gavin was surprised at hearing that, too."

"You're back to believing Gavin?" 

I hate to admit it, but the answer is both a tentative  _yes_ , and yet I can see the point Parke's making.

"Callander is on medication," I say. "He shouldn't have been  _able_  to--"

"Meds don't always work."

"I know, but..." 

We've arrived at the interview room, where Gant is sitting, handcuffed, and in a plastic chair at one end of the table. He looks oddly content, probably pleased to be in new surroundings after spending thirty-six hours in isolation. I can't help but peer through the window.

"Just observe?" I ask.

"That's it."

Parke unlocks and opens the door, and we step into the room, ready for the interview.

 

Gant appears to be quite pleased for someone who could be facing criminal charges. 

He gives me a broad smile, his unnaturally cyan eyes widening and flashing at me, and he claps his hands together, a guffaw escaping him.

Two investigators on the other side of the table look terrified, either by his demeanour or his volume. 

"Ho ho ho!" he laughs with a grin. "So I have some visitors now!" 

"Hello, Gant."

"Parkey, my boy, how are you?" 

Parke doesn't dignify that with a response, and Gant, unperturbed, turns his attention to me. "And... Doctor-- I can't remember your name-- but--  _yes_." He chuckles. "The _rapist_." His expression changes and it's almost a stare, amused, intense, and intimidating. 

"I've heard that one before, Mr. Gant," I say coolly. "And I'm actually a psychiatrist."

He claps again. "Oh ho ho ho-- so you are," he says. "Think I could use a little mental health help, do you?" His glasses have slipped down his nose slightly, but he makes no effort to adjust them. "I suppose I'm a little mad, but that comes with the territory, doesn't it?" 

"Gant, we're here to discuss what happened to Klavier Gavin," Parke says sternly. "If you wish to talk to health professionals, we can arrange that  _later_."

Gant glares at him, yet falls silent and doesn't challenge him. I glance towards the investigators with their clipboards, they look nervous-- they're only young, only here to take notes. 

Parke pulls up a seat next to one of them, leaving the end seat in the row for me. I sit down and pay attention, my eyes on Gant. 

"Are we ready to start then?" Parke asks in the type of voice that suggests authority, that we're damn well  _going_  to start by hell or high water.

Gant claps his hands together again and smiles. "Of course we are, Parkey."

"Right." Parke's sounding nervous beneath the coolness. "Damon Gant-- you know why you're here-- I'd like for you to tell us about what happened during Gavin's professional visit."

He's no longer smiling, but he doesn't look particularly  _bothered_  by the question either. Reaching both hands up because of the handcuffs, he notes the tuft of hair dangling between his eyes, and makes a move to touch it before deciding not to and resting his elbows on the table in front of him. 

"I was returning back to my cell after completing my work duties in furniture assembly," he begins. "I was with the other inmates, walking alongside my contemporaries." He looks deep in thought. "If I recall correctly... we were talking about White's sudden disappearance from the unit and wondering where he might have gone to."

"What were you saying about White?" Parke asks harshly.

"Nothing in particular," Gant replies. "We were just surprised that we hadn't seen him for awhile, and mentioned that the old chap seemed out of sorts of late." He chuckles, and then looks towards the investigators. "White was my former cellmate," he explains. "He stabbed me in the back-- literally-- last week, though." He chuckles casually about it. 

"Continue," Parke says stiffly.

"Well, we wandered past the visitors' area, and noticed something of a commotion-- young Matty Engarde seemed to be saying a few things to one of the visitors-- of course the crowd wanted to see who was there, because-- you know how it happens, Parkey-- something different happens on the unit and people become aroused-- they become  _interested_." He smiles again. "There was a bit of a scuffle, and I was pushed to the side, and suddenly I'm in a room with my four contemporaries and a dashing young rock star who must have been Gavin's brother from the looks of him."

He shrugs carelessly.

"What happened after that?" Parke asks. 

"I hadn't realised that the door was locked until the young man who had been in the room earlier was trying to get out," he says.

 

The reason it was  _locked_ , Gant-- is because one of your friends managed to acquire a key, which you admitted to earl--"

"Oh, yes." He claps his hands again. "Tigre had kicked at the door and part of a key had broken off in the lock," he says. "I recall that because I remember wondering where the key had come from."

"That isn't your concern," Parke growls. "What I need from you is a statement regarding what happened in there."

"Tigre-- you know how that man has a bit of a temper-- became quite enraged and he removed the table from the centre of the room and then hit the younger man across the back with it," he says. "There was a  _crack_  and he stopped screaming," he says. "By this stage, Plan and I removed ourselves to the far corner of the room, while Callander and Tigre..." He trails off, and looks at the female investigator. She's fragile-looking despite her height, and pretty in a girl-next-door kind of way, beautifully made-up and determined to look every bit as tough as the people who work here.

"What happened next is not something I'd feel comfortable discussing in front of a lady."

She hisses slightly, and glares at him. "I have a strong stomach, Mr. Gant," she says dryly.

"Very well." He casts her a surreptitious glare despite the easygoing and jovial voice. She's subtly challenged him, and he doesn't like that. "Tigre and Callander..." There's a worried look that comes into his eyes, like he's not quite sure how to explain it. "Tigre held him down-- he was moving around a little bit, at that stage; and while that was happening, Plan was telling me that he was the--  _person_ \--" and a smile at the young woman for self-censorship-- "who happened to be the prosecutor on his case." 

"What happened after that, Gant?" I can hear Parke getting more and more irritated by the subtleties in his voice. If this was any other situation, it would be comedic.

"From where I was sitting, I couldn't see clearly," Gant says. "I initially thought Callander was just being inappropriate as he is wont to and that he was...  _touching_  him-- making lewd and outlandish sexual gestures at him-- but it appeared to ...not be the case." His nose wrinkles and he looks disgusted.

I'm wondering if at least some of it's the truth, but it doesn't add up. I nudge Parke under the table, and his brow furrows.

"We all know that Klavier Gavin was still conscious after being hit," Parke says. " _If_  he was actually attacked by Tigre when you claim he was." He pauses, annoyed. "Every single one of the reports mentions the door rattling as though someone was trying to get out some time after that, and you seem to have left out more than a few details about what happened in that time frame."

He chuckles. "I forgot," he says with a clap. "I made young Lily scream, yes?"

"The fact that you had time to look through the blinds to see what was happening outside suggests that you were just as involved as the rest of them," Parke says.

The investigators are scribbling furiously onto their clipboards.

"I was, in actuality, curious as to where the staff members were," he says. "And I thought I could hear a duress alarm in the distance--"

"The room is soundproofed."

Gant claps his hands together again and smiles. "Ho ho ho," he laughs in a boom-- "What a clever place to plan an assault on someone-- a soundproofed room!"

There's a silence, as though he's confessed, and Parke glares at him. "Very few people know that room was sound-proof," he says slowly. "The only people who seem to have been in there themselves, and records don't indicate that  _any_  of the four of you  _have_  been in there." He turns to the investigators for a quick explanation. "That room isn't used frequently."

Gant looks puzzled and almost frightened for a split second; there's  _surprise_  on his face, as though he's genuinely been caught off-guard. It's the surprise of an innocent man.

"I never knew that room was soundproofed," he says again.

 

"I don't believe that," Parke says. "I don't believe in coincidences and I  _don't_  believe what you're telling me," he snaps. "The acquisition of the key--  _then_  the fact that Engarde-- one of your associates-- was the one taunting the visitors which started the whole thing,  _then_  the fact that you're giving us a  _very_  shakey statement--"

He's getting angrier, and this seems to be making Gant calm somewhat. There's a resemblance to Gavin, actually; they both seem to thrive on chaos happening around them, they both have a level of charisma and a strange intensity about them.

Perhaps it's for the best that they aren't friends.

"Engarde isn't one of my associates," Gant says with a chuckle. "Engarde and I formerly shared a cell and had a civil relationship, but Engarde..." He stops himself. "I can't say I know why, but Engarde seems to have dropped his old friends for Kristoph Gavin, hasn't he?"

Thoughts of White's confession come to mind again, and I feel somewhat ill.

Parke, realising his dead end, drops the subject of Engarde. "I still have reason to believe that it was not a random incident," he says. I think of White's confession again. "Others around the institution believed that something was going to happen."

Gant eyes him carefully, like a parrot in a cage sizing up a pair of intrusive fingers. He doesn't say anything.

"Listen." Parke folds his arms and leans on the table. Once again I'm wondering why he felt more suited to this job than to the police. "I realise that you don't  _enjoy_  spending time in isolation, and I also understand that you have a reputation to protect." He looks at him intently. "If you cooperate with us, Gant, and if your memory should  _improve_ , you might be spending the night back in your cell."

Gant's face slowly shifts into a smile. He's probably realised that he's been backed into a corner, that whether Parke is bluffing or not is a moot point; that White  _could_  have potentially told someone something and leaked information.

He sighs.

"In prison," he says, "people will tolerate many things from their fellow inmates." He chuckles to himself and I feel my skin crawl. "But there is," he continues, pointing a finger as though he's imparting an important lesson-- "a very definite code one cannot help but adopt in order to stay alive." He voice slows and deepens. "It's also the last bit of integrity some can hold onto."

"Gant, a man was sent to  _hospital_  because of what happened in there," Parke snarls. "So if you're gonna push that code of silence, that  _not being a rat_  bullshit on me, I'm going to ask where your integrity is towards an innocent man."

He glares at us for what feels like an eternity, and then sighs. 

"Right-o," he says slowly. He's considering what he's going to do-- or at least trying to look as though he is. "I was aware of what happened to Gavin's brother," he says. "I told Tigre and Callander to  _stop_ , but--"

He then looks down at the tabletop for a moment. "I was afraid," he admits. There's a gulp and more silence. "I'm an old man, Parkey," he says. "Tigre and Callander looked...  _furious_ \-- and I am aware of what Tigre can get like when he's worked up, and I know why Callander is in here." He gives Parke a nod. "I  _asked_  them to stop, and that was when I checked outside to see what the staff were doing." He pauses again, likely for effect. "And then Lily screamed."

"What happened after that?" Parke asks.

"Gavin got up," he says. "He turned around and looked at Callander-- he was pleading with him just to stop and to let him out-- and Tigre told him there  _was_  no getting out-- Gavin sort of lurched forward and tried to grab him, and that was when Tigre slammed him into the door." He stops again. " _That_  was probably what you heard when the door rattled," he says. "And that was when Gavin passed out."

He looks nervous all of a sudden.

"And then what?"

Parke's sounding stoic and irritated now. 

 

"Tigre thought he'd killed him-- we stood around, looking at one another-- Callander was over the other side of the room looking awfully pleased with himself--" There's a glimmer in Gant's eyes which scares me then-- "and then the SORT workers broke in..." He pauses. "They were... very efficient and rather, shall I say, fiesty." He smiles slightly and goes back to his statement. "I walked," he says. "No point in not walking when you're up against those people. I may be a jolly old fool sometimes, but I'm not stupid." 

Parke nods. "Very well then," he says.

"Do you know what happened to Klavier Gavin?" Parke asks him.

"He was removed by the SORT workers, on a stretcher, I believe," Gant says. "There were about fifteen of them who came in-- four took on Tigre, three went for Callander, one was sort of fussing about, and I walked to isolation with two of them, Plan walked with another two, and the rest were getting Gavin's brother out." He shrugs. "And since then, I've been spending my days in isolation."

"It hasn't been that long," Parke says. "But..." He nods to the investigators. "Do we have everything we need here?"

The young woman nods. "Thankyou, Mr. Gant," she says. There's a shudder in her voice. "We may need to have further discussions with you, but we hope to get this settled as soon as possible."

She nods to her colleague. "Right," he says. He looks at Parke. "Can you send him back now?"

Parke nods, and radios up for escorts.

I have this horrible sense that his truth still isn't complete, and that he's going to slip through their fingers.

 

Parke and I don't look at one another as we're leaving. 

 

  
The unit's busy again; inmates have returned from their work duties for recreational time, and there's a strange calm to the place; a buzz of gossip murmuring through, with the backdrop noises of chairs creaking and the low semi-muted hum of the television. For them, things have happened; security's tightened, four of their fellow inmates are gone, they  _know_  there's been violence; the vibe lingers in the air like the smell of gun powder and it puts them on alert and interests them, yet they're pleased that they've avoided it.

It's my firm belief that the vast majority of the prison population wishes to just avoid confrontation, that a lot of the men here don't go looking for violence, but violence finds them. When violence finds someone _else_ , they can just watch and wonder, removed from it.

A group of them are watching television, it's the news of some description; to the right a group of them are talking amongst themselves and passing around a sportscar magazine-- to the other side of the room, looking perfectly calm and seated at a table, are Gavin and Engarde, a pile of playing cards in front of them. Gavin's holding one, turning it around between his fingers; the five of diamonds. He looks deep in thought and only glances up at me once Engarde has spotted me and yelled out. 

"Hey doc! Spite and malice?"

 

"Maybe later," I say with a grin. 

"They seem perfectly pleased with themselves," Parke mutters to me as we start going upstairs.

"Can't imagine why," I say dryly.

"Their mortal enemies are contained for the moment-- Gant and his crew are behind bars, White's dead and Waverley's off today-- not like they have much else to worry about."

There's a  _whoop_  from downstairs near the television, and Parke's distracted for a moment. "What the hell's got them so excited?" he asks. I shrug.

They keep an eye on the news; the news lets them see what's happening on the outside world and it can provide information on who they can expect to have joining them sometimes. They watch and learn, bits and pieces about the men they might be dealing with later on-- knowledge, here, is power.

We turn to walk up towards my office. Parke's still following me; he wants to talk.

"What's on your mind, Mil?" I've got work to do; today's felt like a nothing day, as though not much has happened. I'm used to doing more than merely observing, I suppose, and it throws me off. There's something passive about sitting back and watching without interacting, and it makes me feel strangely uncomfortable when I know so much is happening. 

"I dunno," he says. "I've just got this weird feeling about things."

"Gant?" I ask.

"That's part of it." 

"What about the others?" 

"I dunno," he says. "DeNong wanted words with Tigre himself-- he'll get fined for the property damage in the secure room, I guess-- and I think he wanted to have a chat to Lily."

Understandbly, given that Lily was White's caseworker.

"I'm just... looking for a motive here," he continues. "If Klavier Gavin was the prosecutor who put Plan away, that gives Plan a motive to attack him, doesn't it?"

I nod. 

"So why the hell didn't he do anything?" Parke asks aloud.

"Or why the hell is Gant protecting him?"

"So you think Plan assaulted Klavier?" he asks me.

I.. don't know. "I wouldn't write off that theory entirely."

"Yet you'd believe Plan did and Callander didn't?"

"Callander's meds had the side effect of giving him the inability to sustain an erection," I mumble-- "And apparently he wasn't above informing people of the fact."

"Maybe he knew there was a plan, that he'd be involved, and was setting himself up with an alibi?"

It's a theory, but not one I'm convinced of. "I don't think he's that devious yet. And anyway, he wasn't in with Gant when he was telling Engarde about it."

" _Engarde_." Parke's face tightens. "The wild card in all of this-- he seems too entirely involved to  _not_  be involved."

"Except that he only taunted the lawyer."

Parke grimaces, his age and his wrinkles showing themselves more prominently. "It's the godamned butterfly effect," he says. "And Engarde knows how it works-- remember how the riot started last time?"

 

It was a taunt, if memory serves correctly; one stupid comment someone made to someone else, a gang rivalry thing; and suddenly the place was like a swarm of angry bees. 

"So you think Engarde was trying to start a riot?" I can't help but sound incredulous.

"Nuh---no." He sounds slow and uncertain. "But I know that he knows what will get things happening. I'm still not ignoring his involvement." 

He's interrupted by the sound of his radio and a garbled message which he gives a curt reply-- " _Received_ " to.

"Phone," he tells me. "They've just finished up with Tigre."

I give him a nod. "Have fun."

* * *

I'm not expecting  _my_  phone to ring; generally when people want to talk to me they knock and enter or I receive word on the radio. Or it's Parke, and he's busy-- not to mention he's had his catchup with me for the afternoon already. So when the telephone rings, I do a double-take. 

It's Lauryn. 

In all the time I've known her, she's called the office... I can't count how many times because ...there haven't been any. But she's on the phone now, her voice distant and scared as she says my name; I ask how she is and she bursts into tears; I can hear the choked sobs and I'm worried; this isn't Lauryn, Lauryn can take care of anything, Lauryn's had media harassment and stalkers and problems with clients and...

"What's happened?" I can't fathom anything; she doesn't have a family of her own, business is good, and she doesn't go to pieces like this. I've seen life throw stresses at her and she just  _copes_  

Therefore whatever this is, it must be unimaginably bad.

"I needed someone to talk to," she says quietly, trying to stop the crying. "I don't  _have_  anyone else and you know what I'm dealing with here and..."

 _You know what I'm dealing with_. Well, I didn't until she said that.

"What's happened?" I ask again. I turn the volume down on my radio so I won't be distracted; I can give her at least five minutes of my time.

"I went to the hospital today," she says. There's a funny little kind of sniffle from her and my brain starts imagining the worst:  _she's got cancer_ \-- before flickering back to her earlier statement and she continues before I can ask for clarification.

"I visited him," she says. 

My whole body goes slack with relief--  _It's only Klavier Gavin_ , I think guiltily, and I'm almost puzzled about her reaction. He was hurt, but...

"How is he?" I ask her quietly. 

"He's a mess," she says. "He doesn't look like Klavier Gavin any more; he looks like some kind of road trauma victim."

I nod. She'd have seen worse when she was studying with me. I still don't quite understand her upset. 

"Was it... a professional or personal visit?" I ask tentatively. 

"It was personal," she says. "I thought I'd stop by and drop some flowers off to him-- he's been good to me over the years and I can't help but..."

And then she sniffles again, and that's all I need.

"It wasn't your fault."

" _I_  was the one who suggested it," she says with another sob. "It was  _me_ ; I was the one who helped him draft some conditions to the visit and he was really enthusiastic about the idea and--" She stops again. 

I wonder if she knows exactly what happened to him.

"You had nothing to do with it," I tell her; "You just wanted what was best for your client and you helped come up with some guidelines to keep him safe and..."

I remember the thump at the door; Gant's fingers on the window and his beady little blue-green eyes peering out.

"He knew the risks," I continue. "After what happened to him when he visited that other prisoner..."

"Daryan," she says. "He never stopped liking the guy-- Daryan was the one who started helping him get out of the mess with--" she cuts herself off, and her voice returns to normal. " _Your client_ ," she says to me-- "He's mentioned Daryan, hasn't he?"

Well there's the most unexpected question of the decade.

"That's why  _my client_  is convinced all this has been set up."

"All  _what_?”

 

"The attacks. Because Daryan was in hospital when Klavier first showed up, wasn't he-- and he was there because he'd been attacked and--"

 

I get this sick feeling in my stomach, and I'm wondering why no one's taken Crescend into an interview room. Except that wouldn't make sense; Gant and Crescend aren't buddies; Crescend doesn't have anything to do with  _anyone_  if he can avoid it. Maybe he wasn't pleased to see Klavier last time, but he doesn't have the influence to organise an attack involving some of the higher-ups in the pecking order like that. It doesn't make sense.

"They're investigating it right now," I tell her. "They'll find out who assaulted him."

"He doesn't want to press charges," she says-- "And  _that_  gets at me, too-- he  _knows_  who was responsible yet he--"

"I wish we did," I mumble.

"Isn't it obvious?" she asks. "He's told me. He says there's nothing anyone can do-- just that he's not coming back here."

"Still, they can get the offenders and ..." I'm not just thinking about Klavier Gavin any more. I'm thinking about the safety of the rest of the prison population. If Gant-- or Plan-- or Tigre-- who have no sexual offenses to their names are recognised as a risk, we could put some precautions in place-, we could see them as potential offenders.

On the other end of the phone, Lauryn sniffs with derision. "It took a colossal twist of events to catch him  _last_  time," she says-- "He  _knows_  that his brother's behind it."

"His  _brother_?"

There's silence on the other end of the phone for a moment.

"He really believes that Kris--?" I stop. "I was  _there_ ," I tell her. "And I think he's got it wrong. Kristoph was with me, outside the room, when the others--"

"We talked about it," she says. "In the hospital-- and I think that was the other thing that got at me, the final straw..." Her voice cracks. "Absolutely  _no one_  has come in to visit him.  _No one._  It was like working with one of your men-- someone starved for some concern and attention and..."

She fades off again, and I can hear her blowing her nose. "I'm sorry," she says. "It's just like it's all collapsing in on me right now-- it's this mess, and then on the news I just heard that Redd White died and I know that's going to be of concern to another client, and..."

Edgeworth. I don't want to think about that; there's nothing I can do.

"Didn't  _the boyfriend_ , that little guy with the spiky hair and the funny name --" I'm hesitant to name him for some reason, but I'm curious-- "The one who was in the papers-- didn't  _he_  come in and visit Gavin?"

She chuckles. A dry, bitter sort of chuckle. "That attorney isn't his boyfriend," she says. "As far as I know, the man's heterosexual." 

That's not what I've heard, I think, but I can't tell her. 

"No, that was a little  _joke_ \-- Klavier's little prank on the media and--" she stops again. "You  _know_  about that?"

"It was in the newspaper."

The laugh returns. "He discussed it with me; the attorney's actually overseas right now, his mentor said he needed a break and..." she stops. "They weren't together," she says stiffly. "It was just culture-jamming, Klavier-style." 

My mouth has dropped open, and I'm remembering Gavin, lying on the bed and looking at the newspaper, furious and hurt. 

"I wish you hadn't told me that," I say quietly.

"I'm sorry," she says. "There's--"

There's a knock on my door. I look down at my watch; they don't like us having personal calls here, and I've been on longer than the five minutes I'd promised myself I would be. "Look," I tell her-- "I have to go-- but-- how about I call past as I'm heading home and we do dinner and a debrief."

It's easy to visualise her smiling on the other end of the phone. "I'd like that," she says. "A lot."

 

Parke unlocks the door and steps into my office. 

"Haven't I already seen you today?" I ask good naturedly. He raises an eyebrow. 

"Dr. Smeer and I just finished up with Callander," he says triumphantly.

I know what's coming. I know I'm not going to like it and that I'm probably not going to believe it, either.

"And?" I ask.

"He confessed." I wish he wouldn't look so godamned  _smug_.

"To  _what_?" I ask. "And what about the others?" 

 

"Tigre maintains his innocence, as does Gant, we haven't spoken to Plan yet, and..." He gives me a look of condolence. "I'm sorry, doc-- sometimes you just  _know_  when something's off, yanno?"

I wish he weren't skiting about it, too.

"What did he confess to?" I ask him again. 

He has a few sheets of paper in his hands; the daily movement chart which he's grabbed from somewhere and which everyone seems to have a copy of; the back of it's been used for some notes-- and then a report.

"He denied hitting him or throwing him against the door," he continues, the smugness still clear in his voice, even though he's trying to hide it, "But he confessed to the sexual assault." His face changes, like he's just realised what we're actually talking about. "He fucking  _boasted_  about it. Like he'd just won the lottery or something." He sounds disgusted now. "Sick fuck."

I don't reply to that; I can't. Everyone has their limits; Parke's seen mine with Gavin. Most people have a hard time stomaching sex offenders or child abusers. Amongst the inmates there's a pecking order, too-- similar to the staff's general view: child abusers are a particular brand of awful. Sex offenders from the outside-- inside the rules shift somewhat-- aren't well-liked either. And every now and then you'll get the wrong combination of some guy built like a refrigerator who has a particular softness for animals or his grandmother and you restructure the units a bit so he's away from the guy in on animal cruelty charges or the man who was mugging little old ladies.

This was why we weren't to discuss the true nature of Callander's criminal activities.

I shake my head. "I still... I'm not convinced."

Parke looks unimpressed. "Look, we need to review the guy's meds, he can spend a bit more time on his own and we'll work something out," he says. "I think you're right-- under the right circumstances and medicated, he's not particularly dangerous. But..."

I can feel a rage bubbling under my skin; it's that almost spurned sense of injustice where you  _know_  you're right and the frustration comes from knowing that  _and_  knowing that no matter what you do, you're not going to be believed or listened to.

"What happened to the others?"

"We've returned Gant and Plan to the unit; Tigre's in isolation for the property damage and--"

"I still don't trust Gant," I say tightly. "Who's he rooming with?"

"He's on his own," Parke tells me, "He's only just been informed about White..." 

My mouth feels stiff and I want to make a sharp comment about how he probably already knew about Redd White's death. But I don't, and Parke's voice softens. "By the way," he says-- "Speaking  _of_ funerals-- we still don't have much information and it appears that White didn't have any family or associates..." He looks uncomfortable as he's telling me.

"So... what?  _We're_  his next of kin?"

"If we can't find anyone who'll own up to him." 

It's a strange sort of conversation to be having: Redd White, in his heyday, was a prominent businessman in the community; everyone, it seemed, loved him-- he was frequently in the tabloids with other well-to-do types and politicians-- until his incarceration. Ten years on and he's been abandoned by everyone, it seems.

"He had... associates."

"Anyone who's willing to pay for a funeral, though?" Parke sighs.

I shrug. 

 

"At least this one's out of our hands," he says. "From my understanding, they need to look into his assets and it'll come out of that or something-- I dunno-- deNong's gonna have a hell of a lot of paperwork to deal with." He smiles slightly at that. It's not heartless, I remind myself, it's how you  _get_  when you're around here long enough. 

We've dropped the subject of Callander and Klavier completely, and I'm glad, in a way-- Parke's not going to listen to me, and I can only hope for his sake that he's right and I'm not. 

"Anyway," he says with a sigh, "I thought I'd better mention it-- you and Lily probably want details..." 

He gives me a nod and I know he's going to leave.

 

"Thanks, Mil." 

He gets out of his chair-- I was right-- and he looks at the copy of White's library book, still on my desk. "Geez," he chides, "You still haven't returned that? What do you do around here all day?" He chuckles, in his dad-joke kind of way. "Anyone'd think you're reading the damn thing yourself."

He gives me a smile and leaves me office.

 

 

 

I head home after dinner with Lauryn.

For someone who wanted to talk, once the reality of me being there was apparent, she didn't have much to say-- there were some garbled apologies and times when she came close to tears-- but by the after-dinner coffees and chocolates, she was back to normal; strong and confident and sure she could pull through.

I worried about her. Like me, she'd had a rough week, in the same sort of severity, but from another side. She'd planned to see Klavier Gavin again; she was convinced Kristoph was behind the attack-- and she was worried, too, about Edgeworth's reaction to White's death.

Things had changed between us, I reflected as I drove home; we used to live in sterile little worlds where we avoided discussing work, where there wasn't any overlap between her clients and my clients-- years ago we'd laughed about the possibility of somehow being connected to one another through our clients-- now, it seemed, Kristoph Gavin becoming one of my clients had turned that idea of it being a silly coincidence right on its head. 

I wouldn't have known about the Edgeworth and White connection, about Klavier's issues nor Apollo's nor Wright's.

As I pull into my driveway, I'm unsure whether I'm starting to loathe Gavin again or be amazed by him-- he scheming and abuse having managed to affect so many people.

I remember someone describing Gant as a cannonball-- booming and loud and noticeable and deliberate, with an almost old-worldly charm about him-- and considered Gavin. He'd have been a nailbomb-- slipping under the radar easily enough, in an unexpected place, with devastating and far-reaching consequences.

Without realising it-- if the attack  _had_  been his plan-- Lauryn-- my friend, a woman whom he'd never met-- was his latest victim.

It's the first time where I'd felt a sense of helplessness in regards to other people's misery. When dealing with clients, I detach, because I can't not. I can't help beyond my professional capacity-- I can listen, analyse, prescribe medication and courses of action. They aren't people I care about in a personal sense; I care because it's my job to, I care enough to want to see them live humanely and healthily.

But I don't care about them in the way I care about Lauryn, and when I'm sitting by the television, watching the day's news with bleary, tired eyes and a brain that's refusing to concentrate on much, I wonder yet again if I should get the hell out of this job. Work with a halfway house; help prisoners get back on their feet-- go into private practise-- something more than this. 

It intruded on my personal life long before Liz left; it was my committment to it which Liz blamed for our marriage dissolving. 

It's now returned to involve itself with my private life and I don't know what to do about it.

  
It's like seeing a ghost from a long time ago when a photograph of sparkling, lavender-haired Redd White appears on the screen for the next news report. They've mentioned he passed away in prison-- and that police are in the process of trying to obtain court orders to access his property in case there is evidence of other criminal matters amongst it.

A shot of a storage facility is shown-- it piques my attention because I drive past the damned thing every morning on my way in to work. And I know more than Sally Lander, the newsreporter is letting on-- it's not about further criminal matters, it's about finding a next of kin so the prison or the state doesn't have to pay for White's funeral. 

I blink and switch the television off. I'm tired, I'm concerned, and I wish I'd done more-- that I'd been able to do more for Lauryn than listen and assure her it wasn't her fault.

I think of Klavier, alone in the hospital, a fading star with no visitors as White had been in his final moments. I think of Julian Callander and Kristoph Gavin, two monsters who are, I believe in this case, innocent. I think of Edgeworth and wonder if he and White had actually been friends, or if White had been blackmailing  _him_  as well as Gant and von Karma with the information about the three of them.

I turn off the light and in the darkness, I feel my chest heave, and that's when I start sobbing.

 

 

 

Gant's back in full swing on the unit-- he gives me a friendly little smile from the telephone bay as I head up to my office from the staff room and the inmates --barring the kitchenhands-- are leaving breakfast and getting ready for work duty.

The prison is starting to return to normal; the initial shock of the attack and the disappearance of four of their comrades has subsided with three of them returned to the unit, the repairs being done, and the knowledge of White's death now known. 

Crescend makes a rude hand gesture at me as I pass him, lifting my hand to wave to him. "Morning, Daryan," I say cheerfully. 

"Eat shit!" He stomps off towards a smaller group of inmates who are awaiting a headcount from staff and movement to their work stations. 

  
When I arrive in my office, it's quiet. I skim over the daily plan sheet-- as usual, none of it concerns me-- and then check my email and run over my schedule. This morning-- I'm seeing Wellington. 

  
Wellington bored of psychiatry not long after our initial sessions. When I informed him that we had to be discussing more than the stupidity and the ugliness of the general prison population, and that I had no desire to discuss other prisoner's  _personal lives_  with him, he huffed out, declaring me a quack.

Next to my schedule someone's noted that he's presented with difficult behaviour recently; it's the  _staff_  wanting him to see me, not Wellington wanting an appointment himself. 

 _Wonderful_.

Those sessions tend to be difficult-- the old saying about being able to lead a horse to water but not being able to make it  _drink_  rings true in most cases. But it could be worse, I think to myself, it's  _Wellington_. Wellington doesn't turn down opportunities to talk to people easily, especially when they're people with positions he respects. Me, a doctor?

He should be a walk in the park.

* * *

He skulks into my office, with Towne following him suspiciously. 

"Mr.  _Wellington_  is here to see you," Towne chirps, and I nod, ignoring his peppy sarcasm and turning to Wellington instead. 

"Hello Mr. Wellington," I say quietly. "What's been going on?"

Wellington takes a seat and turns around to glare at Towne.

"You'll be right with him?"

I nod, and Towne slips out, closing the door silently. Wellington is watching him angrily, his big dramatic eyes shooting him an expression which I can't call anything officially, but personally, I'd deem murderous.

Once he's gone, Wellington turns back to me, looking unimpressed but slightly calmer. 

"What's going on?" I ask him again. 

"I think that question is redundant," he sneers. "I think you already  _know_ , doctor." His tone is rushed and waspish; he's wound up about something. I wonder again about the  _difficult behaviour_.

"I don't," I tell him earnestly. "All I've been told is that you've been  _presenting with difficult behaviour_." I pause. "Do you want to have a talk about that?"

"No," he sniffs. "And I have  _not_  been presenting with difficult behaviour." A long, thin index finger runs through the curl to the side of his face. "I just get incredibly  _tired_  of seeing the prison's resident lovebirds getting to do whatever they  _want_." 

"Who are we talking about here?" I ask. I have to. I know who he means, but to acknowledge that would be admitting that I know the gossip and he might see it as some sort of agreement that they do, in fact, get whatever they want.

"Gavin and Engarde," he says. "All I did which was apparently  _difficult behaviour_  was point out that neither of them are deserving of special privileges." He sounds bitter. "Engarde killed a cultural icon and held a girl hostage, and  _everyone_  knows about Gavin."

I raise an eyebrow and lean in towards him, to suggest that I don't know what everyone apparently knows about him.

 

"It was after Gant and Tigre were brought back onto the unit," he tells me matter of factly. There's a little, satisfied smile on his face now; he blinks a few time, his long eye lashes fluttering for a moment as he continues with an exaggerated yawn. "Mr.  _Gavin_ , the supposed  _gentleman_ , decided to take a  _look_  at Gant-- and there was an exchange of words between the two of them."

He's doing it again; gossiping about his fellow inmates. "Mr. Wellington..." I tell him cautiously.

"I do have a point, let me assure you most honestly, doctor-- my point being that following on from  _that_  exchange, Gavin feels  _persecuted_  and has been requesting special favours from the staff." 

Those still-sparkling eyes widen and he looks bored. "He's probably getting Engarde to offer sexual favours," he says flippantly. "Anyway, it's not  _fair_ \--  _he_  gets to stay in his room all the time and to complain about his safety being at risk." He pauses for less than a second as he catches his breath-- "And the only reason his safety is at risk is because of what he's done, don't you realise-- and--?"

"Mr. Wellington." 

It's as though someone's snapped the off button on a CD player. He falls silent and glares at me. 

"There was more to it than that, wasn't there?" I'm unimpressed, and I'm annoyed at whoever has decided that he was presenting with difficult behaviour. "You wouldn't be in here right now if you hadn't done something to cause alarm."

He knows he's cornered, and he sucks in a mouthful of air in a hiss. 

"I was accused of threatening Matt Engarde," he tells me. "But I must say, that my words to him were merely  _interpreted_  as threatening by one of the plebs your employer has working here. An ordinary man would have seen my words as mere words, not as any kind of a threat, but as a--"

"What was it specifically that was deemed threatening?" I ask him.

"I merely asked Gavin how he'd feel if someone assaulted Engarde."

I narrow my eyes and look at him carefully. "And what would make you do something like that?"

"The fact that he showed no remorse about what he did to his brother."

"Mr. Well--"

"I know, I know..." He waves his hands in front of him like he's urging me to back off and let him finish-- "I  _know_ \-- I'm not supposed to be talking about my contemporaries in your office-- what happened was that Gavin appeared near Gant, Gant made a rather flippant and offensive remark with sexually explicit language about  _Klavier_  Gavin, the  _rockstar_ \-- and to everyone's surprise, Gavin merely shrugged it off and--"

"What exactly did he say?" I'm mentally praying that this session doesn't give Richard Wellington a new interest in attending therapy sessions regularly. I hate to admit it, but his voice is irritating, nails-on-a-blackboard-style.

Wellington blinks, looking uncertain. "Gant made some comment about how Gavin's younger brother was asking for it-- you know what happened the other day?--" I nod-- "and Gavin-- this is the  _disturbing_  part and why I responded as I did-- just stood there, with his arms folded, and this creepy little smile on his face as though  _nothing_  had happened, and then after what felt like an eternity, merely said, "I know."" He stops, looking disgusted. "He said this about his own  _brother_ , the implication being that Gant's joke hadn't been at all offensive because he already--" He stops there. "The man is an  _animal_ \-- what sort of human being would stand by as someone makes light-hearted quips about sexually assaulting their own flesh and blood?" He pauses, and leans in, his face full of disgust and loathing, and his voice drops. "What sort of _thing_  would admit to having  _done the same thing_?" 

I'm not sure if this is Richard Wellington, champion of the underdog, or Richard Wellington, Gant's mouthpiece, or Richard Wellington, con man and scan artist and agent of chaos. I suspect it's the latter.

"Why are you telling me this?" I ask him, leaning back in my chair and trying to remain calm. "Surely you've been here long enough to understand that the behaviour of other inmates has no bearing on--"

 

"I want to know  _why_  he gets special privileges and  _I'm_  the one presenting with difficult behaviour." He sniffs, haughty and furious. "It's not  _fair_. It's simple not  _just_."

Sometimes, I feel as though I'm talking to very small children. Perhaps that's one of the reasons I enjoyed-- no, not quite enjoyed-- but-- was able to tolerate-- working with Gavin so well. Because Gavin didn't  _whine_.

"You said you threatened Matt Engarde," I tell him slowly. "How did you do that?"

  
"I merely  _asked_  Gavin how  _he_  would feel if someone assaulted  _his_  piece of ass," he says. "It wasn't any kind of big deal-- it's just that Gavin, you see, doesn't  _think_  like ordinary people-- he sees Engarde as his possession, and sometimes you have to bring someone's actions back to a language and a situation that  _they_  can understand in order to drive a point home." Beneath the pout, I can see his teeth, yellowed and clenched. "I  _was_  studying psychology at college, you understand, doctor-- I'm  _not_  stupid-- though I sincerely wonder why you haven't declared Gavin a malevolent sociopath and--"

"Mr.  _Wellington_." He jumps as my voice grows louder. "We're not here to discuss Gavin or any one else here." 

I sigh. Perhaps he's right. "What I need you to understand is that your behaviour towards Engarde was deemed threatening, and we need to discuss  _that_."

He glares at me, and I can see he's twitching like he's in shock or a deep, terrifying rage. 

"I can understand that the subject matter being discussed might be confronting for you," I tell him-- "And..."

"It's not confronting," he says angrily. "It's  _prison_." His face hardens and he looks much older than he should. "But  _surely_  Gavin should have been reprimanded for inappropriate behaviour--"

"I suspect that there were  _several_  people involved in that conversation who were behaving inappropriately," I offer gently. "But we're here to discuss  _your_  behaviour."

He goes quiet and tilts his head to the side, angry. I'm aware that I'm not going to get much out of him.

"I need to ask you something important," I say. 

"What?" he snaps.

"Were you at all  _serious_  in your comment about assaulting Engarde?" 

He chuckles dryly. "Of course not," he says venomously. "Probably ninety per cent of the prison population have fucked Engarde-- what's the  _point_?"

I narrow my eyebrows. "I wasn't implying that you wished to have some sort of  _friendly_  relations with Engarde."

Wellington sniffs again. "Of course not-- I wouldn't want to  _catch_  anything. Nor would I wish to incur the wrath of Kristoph Gavin." 

I nod. He sounds serious, at least, and he has reason to after what happened to him last time.

There's a silence between us, and I can feel the animousity and rage coming through from him in the air between us. Hand over my duress alarm, fingers poised at the button just in case, it can't hurt to ask him about that.

"You and Gavin seem to have some bad blood between you, don't you?" I ask tentatively. For a moment, he looks surprised. "The assault which left you in the hospital a few months ago...?" I ask.

He crosses his legs. "Oh," he says. " _That_."

"Well... what happened there?"

"That was between no one but Gavin and myself," he snaps. "And I must assure you, doctor, that has  _nothing_  to do with the fact that he's now receiving preferential treatment."

"How do you know?" 

"Because I  _do_ ," he says. "And that is... not any of your concern, doctor."

"I'd prefer to know about it if I may."

"Well,  _I'd_  prefer not to tell you about it."

"Are you afraid of Gavin?" I ask.

"Yes," he says. 

"Because of the previous assault?"

 

"No," he spits. "Because the man's an  _animal_  who has no sense of humanity or common decency." He looks around the room, irritated. "Is this going on my record?" he asks angrily. "Because if it  _is_ , I want you to document that it  _was_  just a rhetorical question and that I'm already aware that I don't wish to anger the man who put me in the hospital wing for several weeks."

 

I can't argue with that. Even so, I make some notes on his file after he's been escorted from my office-- that he's to be placed on observations, that his medication needs monitoring, and that he's  _not_  to be left unsupervised with either Engarde or Gavin. 

He flounces out of my office, glaring at Field who is waiting at the door, giving me the one-fingered salute I usually associate with Crescend. 

It's always nice to be appreciated in this line of work. 

 

 

 

 

The unit's been placed on lockdown for an hour due to an emergency staff meeting in the tea room. 

Once again, it's too crowded, and there's a hum of uncertainty in the air-- the time for emergency meetings should have passed. None of us seem to know why we're here, and amongst the sounds of people preparing coffee, there are whispers and murmurs of questions, one common thought shared amongst us:  _What the hell is going on?_

When Parke arrives, he's looking grim and confused. This is worrying; everyone knows Parke's on the ball and that he doesn't  _like_  looking confused-- if he's not bothering to mask it, he wants input and assistance. 

I walked down with White's book in my hand, intending to finally return it to the library since I'm out of the office. It sits on the table in front of me, an oddity amongst elbows and coffee cups. 

"I've called you all here," Parke starts, and clears his throat. The room falls silent-- "Because whatever the shit has been happening over the past few days seems to be far from over."

There are a few nods and unsurprised mumbles amongst some of the staff but no one volunteers anything. 

"I've been alerted by three people this morning that there seems to be unrest in A-Wing surrounding the Gant group and Gavin and Engarde-- and that since White's no longer with us, there might be some shuffling around in the pecking order." He doesn't look like he has much beyond that.

"Gavin's expressed concern about his safety," Lily pipes up. "He's asked if he and Engarde can be transferred to Protective."

Waverley scoffs. "I'd like to see  _that_ ," he sneers. "We'd need to build another protective unit if anyone was stupid enough--" he glares in Parke's direction-- "to shift him  _there_."

"Gavin isn't being moved to protective," Parke says stiffly. "Given the high numbers, how long he's been here and the record he has, I assure you, that  _won't_  be happening." He doesn't look at Waverley. "What we need to do is nip this thing in the bud before we have another _major incident_ on our hands."

If I'd thought the room went silent before, I was wrong.  _This_  is what silence is, where no one dares even  _move_ \-- the last riot was years ago, but for the staff who've seen it-- and those who've heard the stories-- it's shell-shocked horror. No one questions Parke; talking about riots is serious business.

"What we're experiencing now is a shift in unit dynamics," he continues gravely. "We have a number of volatile personalities, we've had some shakiness on the unit with White's death and the  _incident_  the other day, we're going to see some unrest amongst them." He sighs. "And at this stage, we have no solitary unit, and they're aware of  _that_ , too-- these guys are going to play up whatever they can to their advantage."

There's a collective nod. "What do we  _do_?" Tona asks. 

"To begin with-- we keep an eye on the usual suspects-- most of them are on obs anyway-- and no one's working alone--"

"What about when we're supervising work detail?" Hamm asks.

"You're all right," Parke says with a nod-- "If you're dealing with one-on-one interactions, that's fine-- anyone else-- I want at least two-- preferably three-- staff supervising--"

"We don't have the numbers--" Towne starts.

"We're  _getting_  the numbers," Parke tells him. "We're bringing in some casuals, and Caster's off leave-- I've just had a word with deNong and he's approved a new roster. We're also going to filch some staff from other units during high traffic times-- and we've implemented a zero tolerance policy on threatening behaviour." 

There's a collective  _groan_ now, which Parke pretends to ignore. " _Any_ one," he continues, "caught harrassing or threatening another inmate, gets to spend an hour in their room-- beyond that, or if they refuse to cooperate, they can spend the rest of the shift in isolation."

"We don't have enough isolation rooms," Towne says. He's looking stern and unimpressed, and I can see why: it's like Parke is admitting that he has no idea what's going on, and he's scared, for the first time in all the time he's been here. 

 

"They'll figure it out soon enough," Parke assures him-- "As for everyone here-- if  _any_  of you feel you need it, for whatever reason-- I want you to be utilising the duress alarms. I'd rather hear twenty of those things go off in one shift than have deNong on my case about worker's comp because someone's been injured."

 _Congratulations, Parke_ , I think to myself,  _You've just infected the entire team with your fear._  Everyone stares at him blankly.

"There's another thing, too," he mentions. "You might see some of our friends from the investigations team still hanging around."

A few people nod again, and there's a  _clink_  as a teaspoon falls off the table. No one makes a move to retrieve it.

"It seems that Mr. Gant has been talking to a known fugitive," he continues.

" _Shit._ " That comes from Hamm. "When did that get discovered?"

"This morning-- IT did a quick check on the phone records, and it seems that Gant's--"

"Gant's never tried to bring anything in here," Field points out. "In the ten years we've had him-- nothing." He sounds just as confused as Parke. "I mean, if it was the deMoraleses or the Cadaverinis or something, sure-- those guys get more  _mail_  than Santa Claus. But  _Gant_...?"

"Who  _was_  he talking to?" Towne asks. 

"I don't know." Parke shrugs. "I was surprised as anyone else to see cops in here this morning and to be told that much-- head office put out the word and..." He folds his hands in front of him. "I suppose if anything happens, we'll find out."

"Can we restrict Gant's telephone privileges?"

"No, but he's being closely monitored."

There's still the silence hanging in the room, the hesitation. We want to leave, but can't.

"When's Callander coming back onto the unit?" someone behind me asks.

"He'll be back this afternoon," Parke says grimly. "Legally we can't keep him in isolation that long-- now, if we had a  _solitary_  unit..."

"When's that gonna be done by?" 

"When it  _is_ ," he grumbles. "Which will hopefully be by mid-next week." He looks around. "And Callander's going on constant obs the moment he gets back in, too. Given the nature of the aggression towards Gavin about--"

"What the hell's that about anyway?" Waverley asks. "The guy admits to being a perv-- what does he  _expect_  people to do? Give him cookies?"

"I dunno." Parke looks at me and smiles. "You're seeing him this afternoon," he says. "Find out why he's on a suicide mission, hey?" There's the usual, slightly sarcastic smile gracing his lips. It feels strangely comforting because he's at least not looking afraid and uncertain. When Parke's sarcastic and joking the world can't be that bad.

There's the familiar murmur amongst the staff in the meeting; things are coming to an end. Parke realises it as well as I do.

"Right--" he continues. "Meeting's adjourned." He grins at us again. "It's wildfire season." 

He's right about that much. The outer regions in the state are known for their turgid weather patterns, and some days, when it's hot and dry and there's more than a breeze in the air, you just  _know_  you'll come home to news reports of wildfires gracing the outer suburbs. It doesn't happen constantly, but once you've lived here long enough, you come to recognise it, you get a sense of some abnormal conditions occurring at the same time; the wrong-- or  _right_  combination for chaos and destruction.

Right now there's that feeling in the air; we're all aware of it. For the newer staff, they're having it pointed out to them. 

"Let's be careful out there," Parke says with a nod as people start standing and placing their coffee cups back in the sink and heading for the door.


	12. Writing on the Paper

The library is silent, as one would expect, when I arrive there.

I don't go there as much as I should; it's  _there_  for the inmates, but given the low levels of literacy amongst the population, and the value of the program to the prisoners who  _can_  read, management allow and encourage the staff to utilise it when they've got the time or the inclination to keep the numbers up, to prove to the higher-ups that it's being used by someone.

It's only a small room, and only a few inmates are allowed in at one time. For the others who wish to borrow books, but who aren't allowed in the library, or who don't  _go there_ , their requests are phoned through to Miss Grave, who notes down who wants what, and then the books are sent out and onto the unit once every few days depending on the demand. Her assistant coordinates the delivery of the books.

Of everywhere in the prison, the library is the closest to resembling its outside world equivilent. It's peaceful. People know what to expect-- for men who were readers on the outside, it must be a haven of sorts, reassurance that no matter how warped the rest of their environment can become and how strange their normal can become, there is still sanctuary in a room full of silence and books.

Miss Grave isn't at her desk when I open the door, and I wait for a few moments before poking my head behind the counter and stepping through to the back room. 

It's unexpectedly tidy-- the last time I was in here, the library had just received a delivery-- there were boxes in various states of disarray cluttering up the back room, a couple of chairs crammed in front of the desk, and the desk itself was covered in paper, stationary, books in some stage of processing, and generalised mess.

It is tidy today, however.

Soft, inoffensive classical music plays from a radio somewhere nearby, barely audible but obviously enough for the inhabitants; Hamm's sitting in the corner with the newspaper open at the puzzles page, concentrating on a Sudoku grid; Miss Grave and Gavin are sitting at the desk, Miss Grave looking at the monitor in front of her, Gavin occupied with two piles of books next to him-- one pile is neatly stacked and each book has a slip of paper inside the cover-- the "going out" pile-- the other is messy and being sorted through, I suspect. 

His blue-gloved fingers carefully flip through the book in front of him as he scans the pages for any kind of vandalism or wear and tear. 

All is peaceful, and none of them notice me initially.

  
Gavin looks up at me first, and he smiles. "Hello," he purrs softly, pushing his glasses up his nose and looking up from the book in front of him. "I wasn't expecting to see you so early in the day."

Miss Grave jumps at the sound of his voice. "Hello doctor-- you surprised me there." She chuckles. "I'm sorry-- I was out the front, but I needed to process--" She looks at the screen, irritation creeping into her voice. "I wish they'd bother fixing the computers in here," she mutters-- "Honestly, with all the funding they get for recreation..." She sighs. "Just a personal gripe." Both she and Gavin are looking at me expectantly.

"Is something the matter?" she asks. She sounds concerned. 

It's then when I realise it-- her question has triggered a thought for me, because it's as though I've suddenly realised what I'm staring at in front of the two of them when she asks me the question. I'm still holding the book, but I feel the blood drain out of my face, and my eyes move down from the recycled paper box next to the printer to Gavin's desktop.

 _Mystery solved_. I can see the corner of the graph which features on the discarded daily plans on top of the pile of paper-- like the rest of the offices, the library receives the daily plan updates-- who's using what rooms at what times during the day...

 

..the library staff, like me, have no real use for the daily plans. 

We're an ecologically sound workplace. We recycle things. We use both sides of the paper...

"No," I say quietly. "I just came to return  _this_."

I hand the book to her, and she passes it quickly to Gavin, who gives me a strange look which I can't decipher. Perhaps I'm looking at him strangely. Perhaps it's the book itself and the fact that it was last borrowed out to a now-dead inmate which is surreal for him. I'm not sure.

"Ah," he says. He places it on one of the piles in front of him-- the pile of books  _without_  the printed up "due back" notices in them. 

"Thankyou." He smiles at me curiously and I feel a sense of urgency to  _leave_. It's like he can read my mind and he knows exactly what I'm suspecting. His eyes move to where mine were. 

"Yes," he says demurely. "We now have a recyclable paper box in here." As though he's stating the obvious.

"That's...  _great._ "

"Is there anything else, doctor?" There's an almost challenging sneer in his voice, like he's daring me to state my suspicions.

"No," I say quietly, desperate to keep my voice under control. My gaze moves to a slip of paper next to where he's working-- beautiful cursive handwriting lists some book titles and authors, and he looks down at it when I do.

"My to-read list," he says, smiling again. "I'll lose track, otherwise." 

"I understand," I say coolly, offering a half-hearted smile. 

He looks at me, quizzical again. "I'll see you this afternoon?"

I can't get to Parke's office quickly enough. It seems we have another problem on our hands.

 

 

 

"Fuck." Parke slams his hand into the desk, not looking at me.

" _Fuck_."

I'm standing just inside the door of his office-- it's seldom used by the inmates, so he has more liberties in terms of decoration than I do. There's a poster on the wall behind him of Source Feed, a rock band who disbanded ten years ago, their faces yellowing under the constant and harsh prison lights which never fade. There's a blob of blu-tack shaped into what might be a puppy dog on top of his computer screen. Someone has poked little blue dots in its face for eyes and a nose.

" _FUCK_!" He slams his fist down again. I can see  _his_  copy of the daily plan on the desk in front of him.

"It explains a lot, doesn't it?" I tentatively point out.

"It explains fucking  _everything_. That son-of-a-bitch was feeding the entire fucking prison everyone's movements..."

"It explains the shredding of the paper," I blurt out, and for some reason, I feel a pang of regret. Like I've  _ratted on_  Gavin. Holy christ. I'm not a  _rat_ \-- this is my  _job_. 

"And the victims-- Crescend-- Klavier-- hell, just about everything's tied up with this one..." He gets up from the desk and he's pacing, furiously, up and down, up and down-- "He probably  _was_  leaving the messages in White's books, too-- fuck knows what else he's been sending out to other people..."

"The Kitakis?" I ask, thinking about the attack on Crescend.

"Probably." His voice is still a furious hiss. "I'm just trying to think what  _else_  he's been doing from the safety of the library where he gets to  _erase_  his evidence..." The humiliation and rage is obvious in his voice. He's been played. It was a great idea to put him in the library--  _therapeutic_ \-- and now it's backfired horribly.

"What do we do?" I ask. In my years here, I've never seen this sort of rage from Parke; not absent of an inmate who's pissing him off, anyway. His office is his sanctuary.

"We leave him in solitary to  _rot_  and make sure he knows Engarde is now sharing a cell with Gant," he snaps.

I don't say anything. I stand there, staring at him, horrified. 

"No--" he pulls himself up sharply-- "We  _can't_. But we get to the bottom of this. And--"

"Perhaps he didn't actually incite any of the attacks," I suggest calmly. "Maybe he was distributing the information--" I think of my comparison to the nail bomb-- "and just hoping, or gambling on the idea that-- people might choose to do things with it." I pause. "It's not unreasonable to believe that a decent proportion of the prison population would want some sort of revenge on the prosecutor who put them away, is it?"

He nods. "Fuck," he says again. "This is a fucking mess." He's looking worried once more. "You know-- I really wish you  _hadn't_  told me about that."

"Ignorance is bliss?" I ask. There's sarcasm I can't control in my voice. It's my  _job_  to tell him about things like this. 

"Something like that," he grumbles, before pacing back towards his desk again. " _Fuck_."

I ignore him. "What do I do?" I ask.

"You're the professional, doc," he says dryly.

"This is a security breach," I point out. "That's your department."

He slows, and a smile creeps onto his face. "You know who came up with the daily plans?" he asks, the smile growing. " _DeNong_. He wanted to make sure we aided  _communication_ \-- that we all knew what everyone else was  _doing_." He chuckles to himself. "There's no way in hell he can reprimand me over some shitty decision he made, is there?" 

I'm still standing there, suddenly aware that this has all been reduced to poltics. Parke and deNong have a civil but disagreeable relationship-- it's no secret that Parke has hopes to fill deNong's role when he burns out or moves onto something bigger and better. This might be the in he's wanted.

"You signed off on Gavin working in the library, though," I point out. We need to discuss  _Gavin_. I need to work out what the hell to do in our session this afternoon, for one thing." 

"Gavin may not have  _done_  anything," he says slowly. "Maybe he had some kind of misguided power to the people thing by sharing that information," he says slowly. I look over his desk. Ironically, there is a daily plan sitting atop it with a few notes scrawled on the back, a to-do list.

"They thought Edgeworth was in the visit, too," he continues-- "Somehow the information was warped-- it was Klavier-- so for some reason they thought a  _prosecutor_  was visiting-- maybe the attack was about that rather than about  _who_  the prosecutor was."

  
I'm reminded of staggered, stumbling and adamant White, telling me that we had to keep Edgeworth safe.

"The daily plan only noted down that it was a professional visit," he says slowly. "Gavin could have been seeing his godamned social worker for all the daily plan said."

"So...  _someone_ \-- decided to get the idea out that it was Edgeworth," I suggest. "But... why him?"

"Especically since it  _wasn't_." Parke looks irritated, as though he's spent hours putting together a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle and the last piece doesn't fit.

"White was adamant that it was Edgeworth," I point out-- "He was willing to go out on a limb to reveal that something was going down for his sake, too..." I'm thinking aloud. "Would Gavin have known White well enough to know about the Edgeworth connection?"

"White was always in with Gant," Parke says-- "And we all know what Gant and Gavin think of one another."

He doesn't need to say it. 

"Did you look over Gavin's file?" he asks. "The attempted...  _assault_  on Gavin not long after he arrived?"

I hadn't.

Parke continues. "Gavin escaped with minor injuries," he says. "He refused to talk about it-- he refused an appointment with you-- he didn't name the other parties even though Towne and Caster had it down that Gant was in the same room as Gavin-- Gant and Tigre and Wellington and White."

I look at him, puzzled. "So this-- this doesn't really add up..."

"My point," Parke says testily-- "Is that they despise one another."

I nod. "Unless they've teamed up in the meantime."

He laughs-- a second of a scoff of a laugh. "Have  _you_  seen anything to suggest that they're bed-buddies?" he asks. "Do you think Gant willingly sent Engarde to Gavin?" He sniffs. "I don't think so," he continues bluntly. "Someone fed White the wrong information."

"Gant?" I ask. Suddenly things are falling into place.

"That's my suspicion," Parke continues. "Maybe he was testing him because--"

"He knew that White liked him."

He nods. "He could have been testing White's loyalty... if things changed, if Gant was more strictly supervised-- wouldn't that suggest that he ratted out to the staff about this...  _plan_?"

It makes a hideous kind of sense. Except it didn't work; White died thinking he'd failed to save Edgeworth, Gant's associates went ahead with their plan anyway... all the while Miles Edgeworth was waiting in his car outside.

"So telling White that Edgeworth was showing up was a kind of...  _test_?"

Parke nods. "That's my theory, anyway."

"And since White's dead, no one can confirm it," I mutter. "Unless Gant decides to come clean."

He smiles at me and we both know there's no chance of that happening.

 

"So--?" I start to ask, but Parke cuts me off-- "I actually think this  _wasn't_  entirely Gavin's doing," he says thoughtfully. "If it was, he was counting on Gant being stupid and willing to play into his hand... and I can't see Gant doing that voluntarily."

I nod again. "So there's someone else who--  _what_?" 

"I think we have three separate problems here," he says. "We have White's death-- which you and Lily probably know more about than anyone else since you were closer to him-- and we have the attack on Klavier Gavin-- and we have Kristoph distributing classified information to the general populace."

I nod. Maybe he's right-- I don't know any more.  _Could_  Gavin have orchestrated that much from the library? 

"Just a horrible chain of what looks like coincidence," Parke says idly. "Stranger things have happened..."

I look down at my watch. I've been here for forty-five minutes.

"I just thought you should know about the breach in security," I tell him.

Parke nods, and I take that as my leave. Both of us have work to do. I turn to leave. " _I'm_  going to sort out the security breach," he says, and I turn to face him again-- "As for you-- try to get something out of him this afternoon, hey?" He smiles in a perfectly sardonic, Parke-like fashion. "He's doing my fuckin' head in."

 

 

 

I've been using the back of a daily plan to note down theories about what might have happened, ironically.

I want to believe Parke; to believe Parke would be to make it more logical and less terrifying-- the idea that Gavin has effectively been puppeteering people-- his workers, his friends, his family-- his  _enemies_ \-- and  _completely unrelated people_ \-- is unnerving. Is the whole system and every person entrenched in it  _that_  easy for him to figure out and manipulate?

I open the email stating that there's been an immediate change in procedure, and that  _under no circumstances_  are daily plans to be printed out, nor any other identifying details about inmates or prisoner movements. There's a brief mention of the Privacy Act, and some miscellaneous add-ons about not sharing personal and identifying information-- both about ourselves and our colleagues-- with inmates. 

It's all lip service, a timely reminder appearing to dull the blow of the fact that something serious and terrible has happened. A few years ago, several workers-- and then some inmates who'd picked up on the situation-- had been sexually harassing a worker. It hit the point where  _everyone_  knew-- it wasn't latent and suspected, it was practically a running  _joke_. The unit received an information session which detailed what sexual harassment  _was_ \-- which included a range of things which were so obviously beyond the pale and not happening, just as a "reminder," to us all. The offenders remained on the unit. The woman left a few weeks later.

This reminds me of  _that_  situation-- the email comes from deNong who is eager to talk about how we  _all_  can improve security, not about his personal screw up. They're even using the environment to defend the rapid shift in policy-- that we should be aiming towards a paperless workplace environment, as though this could have all been brought about by a desire to save the rainforests.

I scoff and close the email. For workers on the other units, they'll probably shrug and realise a policy change means no more daily plans. For everyone on A wing, we  _know_.

  
I'm apprehensive as I wait for Gavin to arrive; I can feel my heart racing and my hands sweating-- the air conditioning in here keeps everything at a regular, controlled temperature which is meant to be inoffensive-- it's not a natural sweat from me, but one brought on by fear and uncertainty. 

I find myself wondering how the workers on the floor deal with threats and the fact that they know they might be walking into violence every time they open a door or acknowledge someone. Especially right now, when we have such a volatile mixture of personalities.

  
When the door opens, Gavin walks in calmly, curiously accompanied this time by Tona rather than Hamm. Tona says nothing to me, Gavin ignores him and sits down, offering me a polite smile as he usually does, and a gaze which borders on penetrating.

He knows that I know.

Now I'm stuck with what to do about it.

  
"Hello, doctor." 

"Hello Mr. Gavin." I'm desperately trying to keep my voice even and steady; paradoxically, I'm sure that makes my nervousness even more obvious.

There's a funny little silence between us; we're locked into some kind of battle and we're waiting. We're trying to work out if it would be wiser to make the opening move or to hang back and wait for our opponent to.

My eyes roam over Gavin as I'm waiting; the papers called him the "angel of death," when he was arrested, and I can see why. He looks peaceful right now, embodying that angelic persona, even though he's quite possibly been involved with death and chaos and --

I'm asking myself if he really could have set up the attack on Klavier, knowing exactly what would happen. I don't want to think about the answer in depth.

"So this is the second time we meet, today." I flash a nervous smile at him. His eyes bore through me. I'm fooling no one.

 

"Yes," he says breezily. "For once you decide to visit me in  _my_  office." He's still smiling casually. "What do you wish to talk about today?" Like we're bored middle-aged housewives having a tea party on a lazy afternoon. "It barely seems as though we touched upon the events which preceded my  _last_  session with you." He blinks.

"Do you have some more ideas about how you might be feeling about the attack on your brother?" He's pulling me into a discussion I'm not really wanting to have right now.

He links his fingers and twists them uncomfortably before falling still. "It's a lot to process," he says. "As well as any emotions I might have about the situation  _personally_ , there are also the residual effects which are now impacting upon my day-to-day functioning."

I raise an eyebrow at him. "Really?" I ask.

"In short: I believe that the victimisation of my brother has singled me out as a target," he says, shifting slightly in the chair. "Consequently, I am now fearing for my safety."

I've heard what I have from Wellington, but from this angle, it will be different. I want to hear it in Gavin's words. He complained last session about me not hearing his side of the story; I can listen  _now_. 

"So-- because they attacked Klavier, they've now turned on  _you_?" I ask softly.

He sniffs. "I suspect it will be attributed to my own responses and actions, but as I'll explain, I was left with no direction I could move-- I was, as they say, damned if you do, and damned if you don't." He closes his eyes and rubs his temple with a long finger. "All I  _could_  do was give Gant the most unsatisfying response-- to him-- in order to hopefully deflect his attack-- and it failed."

He sniffs, sounding most unimpressed with failure. 

"Maybe you could explain that a little more... thoroughly?" I ask.

"Well," he says-- "I was minding my own business, and I happened upon Gant and--" a slight smirk appears in a flash of a second-- "what  _remains_  of his band of merry men-- and while I had no interest in conversing with them, apparently Gant felt the desire to inform me that my younger brother was a nice--" there's a twitch, he's uncomfortable-- " _piece of ass_ , I think the exact wording was." He looks as though he's trying to remember, but continues along after giving it that much thought. "He may have included some other details about him, I don't recall." He pauses.

"Being aware, as I am, of the reactions of fellow inmates to particular responses, I was left with few options. To show anger would have been to provoke further hostility-- and from a  _group_  of men when I was alone-- to ignore the comment would have been encouragement for them to continue goading me, and at some point, my silence would have been viewed as something more sinister with the way rumours and half-truths are spread here-- to react emotionally is the equivilent of--" he trails off, trying to find a description. This is a man who is not used to being vulnerable and emotional and  _noticeable_. "Do you remember what happened to Ron deLite?" A raised eyebrow from him.

"Yes," I murmur.

"So I merely smiled at Gant and told him that I was already aware of that. And I walked away." He shakes his head, cupping his forehead.

"Unfortunately," he continues, "I happened to forget about the way some sexual offenders are treated by other inmates." He says it as though it's a surprise. As though with all his pomp and book smarts he never realised that humans could be motivated by emotion, that most human beings are horrified by sexual assault, or as though he'd never noticed the prison pecking order. 

"There  _does_  tend to be a pecking order amongst the inmates," I agree, slowing down-- "Surely  _you're_  aware of that, Mr. Gavin."

He nods. "I was pushed into a corner," he says, sounding puzzled-- "I don't know what I was  _expected_  to say to win that one." 

"Could you have said ... _nothing_?" I ask tentatively.

His face changes for a moment, there's a flash of something furious and white-hot for a split second. I can't see his hands, and I wonder if his telltale scar is showing.

 

"Wellington  _threatened_  Engarde afterwards," he says in monotone. "And... I almost wish I had said nothing." His gaze shifts to the floor for a moment and he falls silent. This is somehow different: since I've seen Gavin, he's not behaved like this-- he's gone quiet when he's been thinking about things to say, how to word things; but this is different; it seems spontaneous and uncomfortable. 

We need to talk about so many things, but...

"Does it bother you that much that Wellington threatened Engarde?" 

I can't help it, I blurt it out; I'm genuinely surprised at his reaction, and at mine. Surely I could have been more professional...?

His whole face tightens into an irritated grimace and he tilts his head to the side, not saying anything. 

The silence from him is haunting; he looks like he wants to move, to say something, to ask me to shut up. I've thrown rocks and hit a hornet's nest.

I can see his chest heaving and falling under the cheap prison clothes he's wearing, his number moving against the fabric. 

"I'm scared for my safety, doctor," he says quietly. "If I make confessions regarding my involvement in activities in here, will I be sent to isolation or protective custody?" He looks up at me with those words. And he sounds hopeful.

"I cannot promise you anything..."

Suddenly, he's vulnerable. And bargaining. And I'm left with a handful of cards and I don't know which ones I want to play.

"I suspect you're as aware as I am that Gant has killed men," he says coldly. "I don't wish to join his tally." His voice softens. "And I'd  _prefer_  it if others here didn't, too."

I blink. He's waving a white flag. "By  _others_ ," I ask, "Do you mean  _Engarde_?"

His jaw clenches and he looks a combination of irritated and pained. "I was a  _defense_  attorney," he says almost through closed lips. "Of  _course_  I don't wish to see innocent men punished."

"Engarde was found guilty," I tell him. It's a knee jerk, rotten thing to say.

"Engarde was sentenced to life without the possibility of parole," he tells me. "Engarde was  _not_  sentenced to the wrath of Damon Gant and his cronies." His voice is still tight and angry.

"Does Engarde know about Klavier?" I ask. Changing tactics; perhaps he's not at all defensive, he just doesn't want his secret leaked and what passes for a relationship to be destroyed.

"That Klavier was attacked?" he asks in a snap. " _Yes_ , he does." 

"I mean... in regards to your history with Klavier."

He's tight-lipped and angry again, and he blinks, tilting his head upwards, eyes looking at the wall space beyond me. The air around us feels tense and chilling.

"I knew White was weak, doctor," he says. Like he can't help but unravel in front of me. "I knew Gant had his suspicions about White's loyalty, or that White was somehow due to be discarded, yet I knew that he had some sort of practical purpose to keeping White nearby... which I deduced was blackmail." He gulps, not looking at me. "Dealing with White was a simple matter of applying the laws of nature to the prison population." A slight smile appears on his face but he doesn't look at me. "White was an outsider amongst Gant and friends; Gant didn't  _want_  a right hand man-- Gant doesn't  _want_  equals, from what I've seen."

I don't say anything, and his eyes meet mine.

 

" _Really_ , doctor," he says. "Have a look at his crowd: he takes in men he can use and whose intelligence doesn't equal his own." He sniffs. "I understood that he was friends with von Karma when he was here, but Tigre? Tigre is his easily malleable muscle. They get their mutually parasitic relationship-- Tigre gets his violence and what he regards as respect, Gant gets his muscle which will never threaten him once placated." He pauses. "Wellington and Plan-- and at one stage Engarde-- they were his whores; they receive protection and favours from him in return for sexual servitude of some description." He looks thoughtful for a moment. "Callander will probably be the next to be discarded," he continues-- "it's obvious they've used him as a-- no pun intended, of course"-- and he smiles again, his teeth flashing for a moment-- "whipping boy." He sits back in the seat and his head returns to a forward-gazing position, his eyes not quite on mine. 

Did he see the recognition and interest in my face about his theory? 

"What makes you say that, Mr. Gavin?"

"It's simple," he says, as though he's teaching me a lesson. "Callander is terrified of prison. He's, as they say--  _green_." He gives me a withering look as though not even sure why he's  _bothering_. 

"Subsequently, he has no idea about the nature of men like Gant, and takes their "friendship" at face value. Gant, of course, sees a use for this, Callander believes that he's involved with some sort of _gang_  where there is some type of honour code-- and lo and behold, they've got someone they have no real use for to take the blame for their activities." He flicks his hair dramatically. " _Really_?" he asks. "What  _other_  use would someone like Gant have for a man who should be despised by the population for his crimes?" He stops again. "He was in for sex offenses, wasn't he?" 

Intelligent pale eyes sparkle at me nastily. "The media talked about kidnappings, but there was  _more_ , wasn't there?"

I feel frozen. Wasn't  _I_  holding all the cards here?

Why does it now feel like I'm being held to ransom?

  
He leans in again, his eyes meeting mine, soft dark lashes blinking, a glimmer of amusement and understanding on his face.

"The chemical castration?" he asks smugly.

My mouth opens-- I'm about to mention something about how we don't discuss other prisoners' conditions and lives in here, but I'm aware that he knows something perhaps the rest of the prison population don't know, and he's gained a weapon. Or a diversion.

"Don't worry," he says, his voice barely a whisper. "His secret's safe with me." He presses a finger to his lips and smiles coyly.

"What makes you say that?" I ask him.

"Simple," he says. "I'm a man of integrity."

He sounds so fucking  _earnest_. And harmless. Integrity my ass.

"Is this in  _exchange_  for anything?" I ask him suspiciously.

"What could a man like myself wish for other than a chance to turn back time and to have never been caught in the first place?" he asks blithely. There's a pause. "But then," he says, "I would have missed out on some wonderful experiences." 

I raise an eyebrow. "I'd not know of the simple joys of flipping through a library book and returning it to its gloriously untainted state," he says. "I'd not have heard Ruce’s wonderful and fascinating history. I would have never had the alone time and contemplation I had whilst I was in the confines of solitary." Another smile. "I'd have never had the delightful pleasure of making love to a man begging me to make it hurt as much as possible." He chuckles at me. "I cannot say I entirely regret being here."

I'm trying to stay on track with the conversation, and I try to ignore the disturbing mention of Engarde which has distracted me from the original subject for a moment.

"You're becoming institutionalised," I tell him coldly.

"I think, since I'm to be spending the rest of my life here-- that I'm supposed to." He looks confused for a moment. "Is this a good thing or a bad thing, doctor?"

"I'm not sure," I admit. "Provided you can live a functional life behind bars, I suppose..." I pause, suddenly aware of what he's distracting me from. "What does  _any_  of this have to do with White's death?"

 

"Oh," he says, sighing to himself with-- what?  _Relief_?-- "White..." Looking at me hopefully-- "Will knowledge of anything concerning White's death result in punitive measures being taken against me?"

It's stupid to ask him if he  _wants_  to wind up in solitary.

"Why?" I ask. "Do you  _know_  something?"

He smiles. "I knew White had a fragile mind and ego," he says. "I didn't expect him to kill himself." 

"What did you expect?" I ask again. My heart's racing.  _He knew?_  It makes sense-- if Engarde had told him things, it makes  _perfect_  sense.

  
"I expected his men to abandon him," he says coolly. "I expected the prison population to have another outcast, another loner, another Armando or Crescend or Stickler, that's all."

"Did you have anything to do with Redd White's death?" I ask him.

"From my understanding," he says, "White died by his own hand." 

"Did you know  _anything_  about his death?"

"I know that  _someone_  was writing messages in his library books," he continues with a smirk. "They were saying awful things about him, that he was a rat, that he should be dead, there were reassurances that his day would come, that sort of thing-- but beyond that, I wasn't aware of anything else to do with his death."

"Did you  _write_  the messages?" I ask. I'm getting angry and trying not to show it. He's somehow turned this around against me. "Were  _you_  writing things in his books and letting him see them? With the hope that he'd eventually crack and... do what he did?"

He chuckles, turning his head and brushing his fringe out of his eyes. "That's an extremely paranoid conspiracy theory," he tells me-- "Would it make a difference if I  _did_?"

I don't say anything.

"Would Engarde and I be sent to isolation if it  _was_  true?" he asks. His amusement is only furthering my anger.

"Just answer the question." 

I didn't mean to snap at him. Not really.

"You saw my handwriting in the library today," he says slowly. "You even commented on something I'd written yourself."

When I can't remember, he fills me in. "My book list," he says with a sunny smile. "I have to take note of titles which interest me-- I certainly have plenty of time to read them all, don't I?"

"So it wasn't you," I say softly.

He just smiles at me. 

Our time is up and there's a knock on the door. 

"I'm concerned about my safety," he says. There's a hint of panic in his voice. "And I'm concerned about Engarde's safety as well."

"At this stage," I tell him, irritated with what's essentially been  _another_  session of mind games-- "I have no control over that."

"But..." 

There's another knock on the door. Gavin turns to look at it, terrified and desperate now. "Please," he says in a whine. " _Please_." I've never heard him sound this  _pathetic_  before. 

"I'm sorry, Mr. Gavin." I'm not playing games with him. I'll mention it to Parke, but beyond that, as they say-- no special treatment.

The door opens. Hamm is standing there, looking unimpressed.

"Something kept you?" he asks affably, ignoring Gavin.

"Nothing I can't handle." My voice is cool and slightly upbeat.

"Ready to go, Gavin?" Hamm asks.

Gavin says nothing, but looks back at me, his face betrayed and furious, as though he's been slapped.

"I'll see you next week," he hisses.

 

 

 

I'm glad when Lauryn rings in the evening. 

She sounds better, relieved-- the time away appears to be helping-- and with a smile in her voice, she tells me that she has some good news.

"What?" I ask. I'm thinking of the tangled mess I've been embroiled in. Good news is...  _good_... and a welcome distraction.

"I saw your client's brother today," she tells me. 

"This is good news?" While I've got the phone cradled against my shoulder and my chin, I'm pouring myself a scotch. "What's happened now?"

"They've moved him," she says. "He's in a private section of the hospital... he's had a few other visitors and he seems to be feeling a bit better-- I ran into a couple of my other lawyer clients as I was leaving-- they'd been there for about an hour."

"Did he... talk to you about anything that happened?" Capping the bottle and moving it aside, I grab the phone in one hand and my drink in the other. "He's still shaken, still adamant about not pressing charges and never going back there. But he seems a bit more...  _alive_." 

I nod and give a murmur of acknowledgement.

"So what's happening at your end of things?" she asks.

I don't know where to begin.

* * *

Gavin's smiling, sitting in my office across the desk from me, like he's got a secret he needs to tell me. 

" _Look_ ," he says, and I get the sense that something's wrong, like I could suspend time if I wished, as though there's a haze in the day; I don't know what time it is but the prison is like a casino or a factory, we're removed from time here, it doesn't  _matter_. 

Gavin produces a book from behind him, and passes it to me. I open it; in beautiful, perfect writing, there's a list, names, places, dates, times, actions-- names of people I've never even heard of before. I look up at him and nod.

"See?" he asks blithely. "My project... my  _pets_." His finger moves to the open book and trails down the page; there's blood trailing from it, marring the pages.

"You're bleeding," I tell him. I'm annoyed because the blood has obscured his notes and I wanted to see what he'd written about-- what was the name again?-- He smiles. 

"They all are," he says slyly. "Because I made them."

  
I can feel our time slipping away, and it's only when I open my eyes and realise I'm sweating and constrained by sheets that it occurs to me that it's only a dream. A nightmare.

I switch on the lamp by my bedside and look around me, the details of what just happened slipping away from me rapidly.

Sure, I've had work-related dreams before, I've seen clients and the prison in dreams, I've heard the duress alarms and the radios; it happens understandably; most of us spend more time at work than we do at home, the prison becomes our primary environment, our  _life_. Of course, the brain processing and trying to organise these things in our sleep makes sense.

But I've never woken, terrified and feeling ill, because of such dreams; it's rare for my subconscious to bother me like this. There was something unnerving, bizarre, and perfectly accurate about it-- Gavin seemed too real, and the sickening sense of nonsense thrown over the top only made it worse.

I find myself unable to fall asleep afterwards, and remain awake, planning to drink extra coffee over the day as daylight breaks and the sun rises. I shower and dress, foregoing my usual morning jog, longing to be distracted by my clients and procedures and Parke wanting to discuss things with me rather than the mess which is Kristoph Gavin's psyche. 

I head into work early, realising as I hear another Gavinner's track on the radio, that I'm irritated that Gavin has managed to invade my privacy, without even realising it. And realising, of course, that it's my own fault for letting him in.

 

 

The skyline is broken as I'm driving into work. 

The usual haze of pollution can give the city a strange sort of soft-focus tinge on particularly bad days when heat and smoke combine with whatever the hell happened to the ozone layer.

Fires change things, too; and I've seen a few in my years here; distant thick clots of grey on the horizon, harmless-looking white tufts rising from the hills in sweet little curls, betraying the vicious fury and the fact that at that instant, in that distance I'm not standing close enough to, someone's life could be ending and their worldly possessions could be gone or their insurance company could be paying out big bucks. 

This fire is different; it's not a hazy distant thing I'm going to be looking at on the news as I hear that the homes of movie stars and rock artists are now destroyed; the smoke is too thick, the smell is too chemical, too strong; there's a news report on the radio advising motorists to stay off the very road that I'm driving along; the traffic crawls and the air is thick with something dark and ominous.

I long for coffee and I turn up the radio in order to stay awake; the stench of the air around me might not be enough to keep me from falling asleep in the warmth and with the soft thrum of the engine and my poor sleeping habits last night.

I don't want the chirpy perkiness of the Breaky Crew right now; I want something loud and serious which demands my concentration. I hate talkback radio at the best of times, but now it feels like a necessary evil; it's compelling in a strange kind of way, it's human voices forcing me to think and to remain awake.

The traffic continues crawling and I'm used to it, settling back in my seat and wishing for the current caller, an irate citizen ringing about his next door neighbour's dog and noise pollution laws not going far enough-- to be cut off.

The fanfare of a news report jolts me from my position, and the traffic begins moving again. 

" _...A special report just in-- the freeway has been closed on account of heavy smoke due to a fire in the industrial district of--_ "

I can see thick clouds of grey covering the side of the road, growing darker. If my window was open, I'd be doing it up.

" _Fire crews are currently battling the blaze, which has consumed a large section of the Locktite Storage Yard. Police appear to have taken at least one man into custody, and witnesses have reported that forensic crews are in the area-- traffic has been slowed to a standstill on the freeway and emergency services warn that the roads nearby may not be reopened for several hours..._ "

I'm staring in the direction of the smoke. I can't see anything but grey, but the car isn't moving, and I'm forced to look at something. It's an invisible train wreck; I can see the cars around me, I can see the road ahead-- but to the left hand side of me, it's smoke.

" _It is unknown if anyone has been injured in the blaze, and police are refusing to comment on what started the fire to begin with._ "

 _Yet a man's been taken into custody and witnesses saw forensic people hanging around_. I sigh. The media leave enough clues for someone to work out what's happening-- especially when they're in panic and are wanting the hot scoop of the moment as opposed to waiting for it normally. 

I suppose the traffic jam and the delays are big news-- thousands of commuters use the freeway to get to work; it makes sense that the fire that caused it is a Big Deal. 

 

The mention of a man being taken into custody piques my interest though: working in a prison, you come to notice the news reports on crime, you recognise names, you wonder when you'll receive the anonymous and as-yet-unconvicted as clients. It's an awareness of your surroundings, in a way, it enables you to predict the future. You do it without even thinking about it.

My initial suspicion is arson, of course, insurance-related which a vast majority of them are. Someone had something valuable in storage, someone wanted a payout, it makes perfect sense. 

It's only when the traffic finally starts moving again and I'm heading down the road towards the prison, desperate for my morning pick-me-up and unsuccessfully remembering what my day is going to consist of; realising that despite my lack of sleep I'm not even going to be  _early_ \-- that I remember seeing what was the Locktite Storage Yard-- on the news several nights ago. And I can't even remember why.

 

 

The television is on in the staff room when I walk in, and Caster, Lily and Waverley are sitting at the table, watching the news report, open-mouthed and horrified. 

"You see the fire this morning?" Caster asks me as I start making myself what will be the first of many coffees for the day.

I nod and look at the screen. A woman with a large afro and a southern drawl is in front of the camera, an eyewitness who caught footage on her mobile phone. In the background, there's a blur of smoke and firemen. 

"It went up like a box o' firecrackers on the fourth of July," she says, turning behind her and looking at the smoke. "Mad as a mean ol' rattlesnake, I tell ya. Never seen nothin' like it before..." 

"It made the traffic slower than a full cavity search on a geriatric," Waverley grumbles dryly. "Did you  _see_  the smoke? It was worse than those god-damned fire training exercises they make us do."

"I'm just wondering what happened," Lily says thoughtfully-- "I come in from the other side of town so I missed it-- but..." She pauses. "Wasn't that the place where White had his stuff secured? It was on the news the other night when they were talking about White's death."

"Interesting." Waverley doesn't look amused. "No doubt the boys will be interested then..."

He's right. So many of them are bitter and angry that they're here-- offenses against the outside world are cause for celebration.

" _Police have arrested a known felon, underworld figure 'Smokey the Bear,' in relation to the fire_ ," a reporter's voice announces. " _The man has been wanted for questioning in relation to..._ "

Suddenly this has grown bigger, and Waverley breathes out a stunned "Shit." Lily, like me, is silent. 

I'd forgotten about Smokey. Rumour had it that he was a "cleaner for hire," and that a number of disappearances and lesser charges were his doing, that he evaded the authorities for years, that he was well-connected and always one step ahead of the law.

"I don't believe it," Lily says. "Why would he attack an area where he knows the police are wanting to observe?-- Surely he's smarter than that."

"Yeah," Waverley says, sipping his coffee and looking at the TV. A picture of a middle-aged, hard-faced man with greying hair appears. "Smokey never seemed that impulsive and stupid."

"Maybe he owed someone a favour?" Caster looks worried. "I can't believe this," he mutters-- "I get back from leave and this place seems to have gotten worse-- I mean, there's been all that shit with Gavin's visit and now we're getting this punk in...?"

"It's a first," Waverley says. "I've never seen him in here." 

"Maybe he was set up?"

"I guess we'll find out in a few days."

* * *

 

  
I'm in my office, as usual, typing up some notes for prisoner files when Parke appears, looking typically flustered.

He stops and does a double-take when he sees me. "What the hell's happened to you?" he asks. 

"Insomnia." I eye him cautiously. "What's going on out there?"

"We've just had a couple of isolations," he says, unimpressed. "Thought you should know-- Engarde's coming in to see you this afternoon."

I nod. "So  _he's_  in isolation?"

"I didn't want to," he says. "Tigre and Wellington were taunting him after breakfast and it turned physical when Engarde kicked out-- he didn't  _really_  start it, but... you know how it goes 'round here." He sighs. "We broke it up quickly enough-- the three are in iso rooms for a couple of hours til they calm down." His nose wrinkles. "And Crescend, who played cheerleader, egging them on as he does-- he's pretty jacked off but he'll calm down soon..."

"What were they taunting him about?" 

"Oh, you know, the usual shit-- that he's a fag, that Gavin's a diddler-- that sort of stuff." He picks up the postcard on my desk and looks at it absentmindedly before placing it back down. "Gavin hasn't done himself any favours by admitting to it, either, might I add."

"He mentioned it yesterday," I tell him. "Says he's afraid for his safety."

Parke snorts. "Who  _isn't_  right now?" 

"Are you going to do anything?"

Steepling his fingers and cracking his knuckles, Parke looks at me incredulously. "Nope," he says. "Can't  _do_  anything, and the last thing I need is another riot because it's assumed we're giving special privileges to a perv. That's only gonna make things worse for him."

 

"What about Engarde?" I ask.

"I was wondering about that," Parke says. "I mean, right now he seems to be going all right sharing with Gavin; he's off the drugs and we haven't had any of his histrionic attention-seeking bullshit-- but thanks to his association with Gavin, he's a target." He stops and his voice lowers. "I'm wondering if it's better to have one target here rather than two."

"What does Engarde want?"

"Right now he wants to kill every last motherfucker on unit, apparently," Parke tells me dryly. "Or that's what he's been carrying on with since he was moved to iso."

I nod. "Where was Gavin when all this happened?"

"He'd already been moved to the library for his work assignment."

Mentioning Gavin in the library has made us both aware of the security breach. 

"Did he talk about that?" Parke asks me, hopeful, his voice rising expectantly.

"No-- we  _did_  discuss the books thing, though-- like I detailled in the notes--" I smile slightly. It's a sardonic, unimpressed smile. "I don't think he had anything to do with that-- I've seen his handwriting and it didn't match up-- and it seems that no one  _else_  was getting any messages sent to them."

"I still don't trust him," Parke mutters. "You saw what he did to the Service Dogs program, and you know what he's capable of--"

I nod in response. I don't trust him-- not quite. But I  _know_  him-- or, at least, I know his patterns. I know he's got a strange sort of honour code, and that while he doesn't always tell the truth, he doesn't seem to _lie_. 

"So he didn't say anything about the daily plans?" Parke asks.

"Nothing."

"Do you think he set it up?"

I stop, and rub the back of my neck. "I'm... not sure," I tell him. "I-- I believe there's the possibility that he was distributing information about prisoner movements to the population via the library books, but I don't think he was as organised and deliberate about it as he'd like us to think he is."

Parke nods. "I've heard through other staff that Gant wants him off the unit, and then... you saw the fire this morning, right?"

I give him a look that states the obvious. "I drove  _through_  the fire this morning."

"Right-- well-- it's classified-- but-- you realise who Gant was talking to on the phone the other morning, don't you?"

I'd forgotten about that, too. The change in my expression must be obvious.

Parke chuckles darkly. "Advice from the higher-ups says we're to expect one Peder Behr in custody within a few days and we're already to start planning for him."

"Peder...  _Behr_?"

"That's his name." He looks unamused. "It's European or something-- and apparently the bastard's well-connected-- the list of guidelines includes keeping him out of the drug and organised crime units, so we're going to get him on A wing if he comes in, and given his unfortunate moniker, he's to be  _strictly_  not referred to by his full name."

"What else does he want?" I ask. "Satin sheets?" 

"Probably," Parke sniffs. "Word has it that he's a professional and he won't be doing too long given his charges, anyway, but..." The expression on his face is grim. "It... gives this whole mess a new dimension, doesn't it?"

"So-- do  _you_  think that Gant called him in to destroy the storage facility?"

Parke's expression is obvious. "Try proving it, though: and I doubt Gant's going to say anything-- we're talking to him this afternoon but it's like getting blood from a stone." 

"Could we restrict his... privileges?"

Parke laughs. "The pool's been out of service for nearly a year now," he says. "And that was his one motivator-- if White hadn't offed himself and we hadn't needed to fix the solitary cells, we probably  _would_ have had the budget to get the pool up and running." He grimaces. "I know how this afternoon's gonna go down-- he'll just laugh and be perfectly friendly and completely blase." 

I nod again. "Let's just hope Behr's got a good lawyer then, hey?"

"I hate to admit it," Parke says, "But I don't want to see him in here either. The last thing we need is any more high-profile drama."

 

 

 

Matt Engarde is all but dragged into my office by Waverley and Denham.

"I don't need to see the  _shrink_ ," he spits, trying to wrench out of their hold, and it's then that I notice he isn't being escorted, but he's being lightly  _manoeuvred_  by the two guards, one on each shoulder.

"You know what this is about," Denham says gruffly. He's not meaning to sound gruff, at least, I don't think he is, he sounds fed up.

"Unless you pricks are going to put me in protective with Gavin, I want to stay in iso." He's furious and terrified, and he spits in Denham's direction, catching him on the boot. There's a dark, shiny patch of saliva on the black leather which everyone pretends not to notice.

"That's assault," Waverley warns him.

"Yeah?" snarls Engarde. "Like when I'm going to fuck your Dad in the bathroom-- is that assault, cunt?" 

"Iso?" Waverley asks in monotone.

Denham gives me a withering he-needs-to-talk look, and I don't say anything. I've seen Engarde in agitated states before. I've seen him angry. I've seen him ready to assault people. I've seen him slicing into his face with sharpened fingernails and licking the blood off his fingertips and threatening to poke staff in the eye if they come near him. I've seen him attempt to assault people before. I've seen him coming down off drugs and combining some of the above with incoherent moaning and nonsensical sentences. I've heard him catcalling at his window, a favourite passtime of his when he was rooming with Gant, taunting new arrivals with the information that they were going to get bashed and raped.

But I've never quite seen this before. This is _fear._

Waverley shoves him forwards and glares at him; Denham leans in, not letting go of him. "Are you safe, Engarde?" he asks.

"I am in  _here_ ," he snaps, finally looking me in the eye. He calms, ignoring the two workers. "Hi, doc." The voice is dripping with sarcasm, but at least there's no directed malice. 

"He'll be right in here?" Denham asks warily, releasing him as he sits.

Waverley's glowering at him. "Write him up for threatened assault," he says blankly.

"Fuck you!" Engarde turns towards him but stays in his seat. 

"...Right?" Denham asks me again, gesturing towards Waverley to leave the room.

"Yeah." 

But Engarde doesn't sound  _right_ \-- he sounds terrified and wound up. I give the workers a nod and wait for them to leave and shut the door behind them before I address him.

"So what's going on?" I ask nervously.

He's sitting there, shuddering slightly, his brown eyes darting all over the place. I can see the scarring over his eye and cheek; his hair's slicked back as though he's trying to look menacing on purpose.

"Fucking Waverley," he snaps. "That can't be regarded as a threat anyway, because his dad's  _not in here_. I don't even know if the bastard  _has_  a dad." He looks in the direction of the closed door. "If his old man had any sense, he'd have fucked off the day that cunt was born."

I probably should be asking him not to swear, but I'm more concerned about the  _fear_. "What's happened?" I ask gently.

"Waverley," he snarls.

"I heard you were in isolation this morning."

"Yeah-- I  _was_. But that's because of what happened-- even Parke said I had nothing to do with it but I fought back so..."

"Fought back against what?"

"Wellington and Tigre are now giving me shit and Waverley suggested some room changes." He glares at me. "Somehow it's okay for  _them_  to threaten Gavin and I and it's not okay for me to fight back?"

"What happened?" I ask.

"I got isolated and Waverley made a comment about splitting up the rooms and moving me back in with Gant." He looks at me, scared. "I can't do that."

I nod. "I realise," I tell him-- "But-- does Waverley know why?"

"I dunno." He looks frantic. "He's been saying shit about putting me in with Gant and Tigre in with Gavin. And... well, we all know what happened with Tigre and Gavin's little brother, right?"

This is where I'm caught off-guard.

"No."  _Dammit... Callander confessed to the assault..._  The confession was meant to be the end of it along with Gavin's desire not to take it any further. I mentally curse Matt Engarde for bringing it up again.

 

"It was Gant and Tigre who fucked him and bashed him." He doesn't look as horrified as he should for some reason and it's haunting and unnerving. I write it off to him having seen years of violence, both sexual and otherwise-- behind bars; I'm more stunned at the revelation. 

"What makes you say that?"

"Gant's showing off about it," he says. "Keeps bugging Gavin about it, waiting for him to crack and stuff." 

And then there's the smirk on his face which is there for less than a second; a flicker, a nothing of a movement, something which I shouldn't have seen but have-- a  _glitch_  in the Engarde facade,  _triumph_. 

"Do you know something about it?" I ask quietly.

"I know Gant thought he was going to freak out Gavin by doing it but--"

"Another inmate owned up to the attack." My voice is tight and cold.

"Yeah, but we all know what  _that_  was all about," he says with a shrug. "Callander's been malfunctioning since he came in here-- all he can do is watch nowadays."

I'm stunned that he lied-- if  _this_  version of events is the truth. My mouth feels dry, my voice hoarse. "We're not supposed to be talking about other inmates, Mr. Engarde." 

He blinks; on one hand, he's calmed down and is talking at me rather than spitting and swearing, on another-- I don't want to be hearing this.

"That's all he  _does_ , though," he says matter-of-factly. "He was being all creepy and annoying Gavin and I and just...  _watching us_ ," he continues. There's a smirk in his voice as he goes on. "The other day-- Gavin and I were, well... stuff was happening between us-- and-- it wasn't anything  _extreme_ , you know, just...  _stuff_ \--" he raises an eyebrow-- "and I told him to quit being a sick fuck and he just smiled and said he was just enjoying the show." He looks scandalised and annoyed. "And it's not like we've done anything  _since_  then like that--" He stops himself, as though worried. "Anyway, my point is-- he can't get it up and stuff, and everyone knows that."

I nod. "And this is relevant to the conversation because...?"

"Oh, yeah-- because Gant's just been  _saying stuff_ , you know--  _little things_. We all know he did it." A dark look comes into his face. "It was to be expected, you know."

And there's that flicker again, that something I shouldn't have seen, like he's  _pleased with himself_.

I exhale slowly, my eyes focusing on his. "Did  _you_  have anything to do with what happened?" I ask him.

He looks away. "I plead the fifth," he says automatically. And then he's smiling at me again. "I can do that, can't I?"

"...or did Gavin tell you to say that?" I'm furious, annoyed with his smile and the fact that he's so blase about it. "Did Gavin set you up?"

I have a sick, swirling feeling in my stomach: Lauryn might have been right: it makes sense-- Gavin got Engarde to set up the entire situation-- he provided the whereabouts and time his brother would be showing up; Callander testified that he was responsible... 

"Did you ask him?" he asks sweetly. "What did he have to say about it?"

Therein lies the problem: he seemed perfectly confused by what happened. 

"We can't talk about other inmates' criminal activities," I tell him sternly. "But we  _can_  discuss  _yours_."

There's another glimmer in his eyes and he looks thoughtful. "Will Gavin and I be sent to solitary if we  _were_  involved?"

I need to tell Parke about this. I already have a horrible sense that this isn't the end of this, that it's all part of something bigger and nastier; and that no one's going to talk freely.

"I can advise that you and Gavin be separated," I warn him. "Especially if there's reason to believe conspiracy was involved." I fold my hands on the desk in front of me. "And I will have to advise Parke--"

"Gant's not going to talk," he says simply. "And everyone knows Gant runs this place and has workers in his pockets. The whole situation with Klavier--  _everyone knows_  what really happened, no one's going to cough up to it." He blinks at me innocently. 

"Why did you bring it up now?"

  
"Because I'm scared for my safety."

In the distance, there's the faint blee-blee-blee of a duress alarm going off, as if it's making a point.

"...And I'm scared for Gavin's, too," he says darkly. "They're going to kill him."

Once again, his voice is frantic and scared. "I  _know_ ," he says-- "The moment you separate Gavin and I, Gant's going to get revenge on me for leaving his group, and they're going to kill Gavin."

"Surely you're being a bit melodr--"

"Timothy Plan told me," he says darkly.

I sit back in my seat, waiting to see who else he's going to claim is involved. "So you and Plan are...?"

"Plan  _owes me_ ," he insists. "I have more dirt on that guy than White had on half the city. Plan wanted revenge on Gavin's brother," he says-- "He thought the fact that a prosecutor was hanging around here meant some kind of investigation." 

My mouth still feels dry. "So-- you set the whole thing up?" I ask him.

"Like I said, dude, I plead the fifth. And I'll keep doing that until you all leave me alone." And then he looks sly. "Unless you're offering a transfer to protective custody." 

"I can't authorise transfers," I tell him. "That's up to Parke and the unit."

And our time ends there.

 

I never noticed the duress alarm cease, but it has-- in the silence between Engarde and I, I'm aware of it. Surely enough, I'll hear from Parke what happened. I hear a knock on the door, and a now-calm-and-collected Engarde stands up to meet whoever's waiting for him.

Caster enters warily, and seems relieved when he sees that Matt Engarde is back to his casual, demure, refreshing-as-a-spring-breeze persona.

In all honesty, this shift in affect bothers me more than the rage did.

"All good?" Caster asks with a smile.

"I feel wonderful," Engarde says with a beam, walking over to him. "Truly, this here is a man who can work miracles." 

It's when he turns back to me as he's walking out, with a glimmer in his eye and a flash of teeth-- and a voice lowered so that Caster can't hear it that I feel my blood freeze--

"Please keep all this in mind, doctor," he says sweetly. "You wouldn't want  _another_  death on your hands, would you?"

When the door closes, I have an overwhelming urge to throw something. Instead, I shift the mouse on my desktop, prepared to type up notes regarding the session, readying myself to drop Parke a line about what I've just heard. I'm about two inches away from telling him that I'm not an investigator and that he can  _stick_  the entire unit, that I could be working in a nice little private practise somewhere, that I could work less and get paid more, that, hell, I could take up  _golf_  on a regular basis if I wished to-- only I exhale deeply and look at the screen. 

I can't leave. This is my  _job_. My identity. My... calling, I guess.

I sigh; I'm all out of time off so time off isn't an option. I just have to weather the storm and delegate and try to look after myself.

I shudder when I see the subject line of my newly arrived email: Redd White's funeral. 

 _Fuck_.

 

 

 

 

It was Gavin.

"Nothing too serious," Parke tells me as he watches my face drop in disbelief, "It happened in the kitchen during lunch hour-- Plan smacked him over the head with a meal tray and he turned to retaliate-- but Towne and Stone got there before he could do anything.”

"Is he  _all right_?" I ask. I'm wondering what Gavin looked like after the attack, how composed he was in his response. "Nothing permanent?"

"Nope," Parke tells me. "And he insisted on returning to the unit even though he could have stayed in the hospital wing for the rest of the afternoon."

I give Parke a  _look_. "No more library shenanigans?" I ask nervously. "He didn't have  _important work_  to return to?"

"Nothing like that," I'm assured. "Towne was watching him like a hawk in the returns this afternoon. Looks like he's behaving himself." He stops himself. "I think he's running scared though-- I've never seen him like this before--"

"Engarde was practically  _pleading_  to be put into solitary or protective."

"I'm not doing it," he says. "There are far more out there who deserve protective more than him-- hell, I'm more concerned about Callander, sick fuck that he is-- than those two."

"Callander?"

"Yeah-- seems that he's fallen out of favour with Gant and his boys," he says. "Which was to be expected-- Gant's changed his tone recently, shuffled his lineup-- it's him, Tigre, Plan, Wellington and he seems to be courting Crescend now."

" _Crescend_?" That doesn't make sense. "He's wanted nothing to do with the guy for--  _how long_?"

"Nearly two years. But now he's just been going out of the way to kiss his ass."

"Not an image I'd like to have before my coffee break."

"You know what I mean." He sighs. "At least Crescend isn't buying it for a moment-- he isn't as idiotically gullible as Callander and friends have been." 

I give him a nod. 

"Most likely thing that's going to happen is that Crescend laps up the attention and doesn't commit to anything, and then Gant finds a new recruit." He shrugs. "But this thing with Gavin and them is worrying..."

"Do you think he's trying to get Crescend on side so they can take out Gavin?"

Parke nods. "That's  _precisely_  what I think's going on here. But since Crescend hates everybody, all I can see happening is him sitting on the sidelines with popcorn laughing his ass off when they're in battle mode. He doesn't commit to anything."

"Does he have any particular reason to hate Gavin?"

"Not that I'm aware of-- you know what he's like-- stays out of the limelight-- ironic for who he was before he came in-- and he's not really been involved with anything. There was that incident a few months ago with the Kitakis, which he swears was bullshit, and every so often he cheers on an attack, but that's it, really."

I know what he's talking about; Crescend is, for all his aggression and the surly attitude, somewhat harmless. "Yeah," I agree.

"Our problem is what you just told me before about Engarde and Gavin and what you've said about Engarde's involvement in the attack on Klavier Gavin-- and the subsequent pleas for isolation from them."

"I pointed out that they could be split up," I mention.

"Which gives us a dangerous equation-- on one hand, it might reduce our problems-- on another, it might compound things further. We all know what Engarde's usually like around here; Gavin's had a good effect on him."

"When you ignore the biting."

I raise my eyebrows. "Has there been more of that?"

"Not that Engarde's told us, but you hear things-- and we found a stockpile of pills in his room during a search this afternoon." He looks bewildered and disgusted. "Christ knows what those two are getting up to."

I'm still stuck on the mention of the sleeping tablets. "I put him on sleeping tablets for his sleeping issues," I murmur. "But he was taken off them a few days ago and never asked for more... he was...  _stockpiling them_?"

"Yeah, it doesn't look good."

"Do you think he was planning on killing Gavin?"

Parke looks grave. "I have no idea," he says. "But I wondered that myself. Maybe all isn't well in paradise after all."

I think about Engarde's pleas which involved Gavin's safety as much as his own. "He seemed adamant that he wanted Gavin to be protected as well."

"Maybe he's trying to fool you?"

I look at him. I'm not too bad at picking out lies in this place; the idea of Engarde trying to fool me is...

  
"I mean, really, doc-- Engarde's a conniving little prick when he wants to be."

"I'm still not convinced," I tell him. "Though I'm concerned about why they'd be wanting to keep a large amount of tranquilizers on hand."

"So am I," he says. "And while that's not a compelling reason to split them up, the fact they might have been conspiring to attack Klavier Gavin is..."

"Are you going to do anything about it?"

"Well-- Engarde was warned after this morning's incident that if there's any more incidents from him, he and Gavin will be separated," Parke tells me. "I'm hoping more than anything that it just ensures they behave themselves."

I nod. much as I don't really like the idea of them conspiring together, I also don't like the idea of them being separated. But I can understand Parke's rationale.

"You wanna talk to Gavin this afternoon?" Parke asks me. I don't. I don't want to get involved in this mess-cum-investigation. 

"Because I was thinking he should talk to you after what happened."

 

 

* * *

Gavin walks into my office, twitching and trying desperately to look as though all is well with him. When Hamm leaves, I lean towards him from my desk.

"What happened this afternoon?" I ask.

He blinks, and there's something of a growl in his voice. "Engarde and I are now the unit's new targets," he tells me angrily. Looking at him closely, I can see there's a purpling bruise across the left hand side of his face, and his hair looks ratty-- he hasn't bothered with adjusting it after the attack. And for the first time I can remember, he's not wearing his glasses. 

The effect is nerve wracking.

"What happened to your...  _glasses_?" I ask. Of course, they're the most obvious change in his appearance, noticeable because of their absence. With the glasses, he always looked more serene and in control. Now, he doesn't.

"I have an appointment with the optometrist next week," he grumbles. "And-- I paid dearly for the queue-jump in that respect."

This is a descent to a new level. I raise an eyebrow. "What do you mean, you  _paid_?"

"Engarde had to  _convince_  one of the guards for the privilege of me getting my spectacles in a timely fashion," he says quietly. 

"And how did he manage that?" 

He gives me a withering look. "What do  _you_  suppose, doctor? I know you're not naive enough to believe that the system is actually fair and balanced and not beneath bribery and under-the-table dealings." He blinks at me, clearly annoyed. "I suppose I should be grateful but I'm furious-- I wouldn't  _need_  glasses if it weren't for Gant and his men." There's fear in his voice, clear and obvious. "I suppose you-- and the rest of the staff here-- longed for the day when you all would see me terrified and cowering like a hunted animal," he snaps-- "Well-- you have it now, don't you?" He spits the words out, angry and unbalanced. "The fall of the great Kristoph Gavin."

He leans back and looks at me, squinting. I can suddenly see that the loss of his glasses has contributed to his bad mood. "I've been left, blinded, stumbling around, an insect with most of its legs removed, awaiting the glare of the magnifying glass." He turns from me and looks to the side, still squinting. "I'm as good as dead right now." There's a heave of his shoulders and a weary sigh. "Until, of course, Callander comes back under fire."

"Maybe you could just... keep your head down and stay out of trouble?" I suggest. 

"My number's up, doctor." And that's when I hear it, something I've never seen before--  _true_  fear and resignation. "I always believed that my right to dignity was protected when I was younger; that should I engage in criminal behaviour, my punishment would be just and fair; not cruel and unusual as this ordeal has been."

I nod, silent. I can see his point.

"I have nothing left to bargain with," he continues. "No tricks or taunts or plans up my sleeve, nothing. I've been made aware that the very least I can do is hope for isolation for a longer period of time, or that Engarde and I get moved to Protective--"

"We both know that won't happen any time soon," I tell him.

 

"I realise this," he says. "All I have left to me is my physical capabilities from now on; and I have sworn-- if I'm threatened again, I fight back." He looks at me again, and his squint is painful; I can imagine the frustration at the loss of his sight. "And from now on, if I fight, I  _kill_."

"That's not going to do you any favours."

"I realise why you think this way," he tells me. "It might appear so for a man of your position-- but should I harm someone significantly, I will be isolated." He shakes his head. "Of course I would prefer not to go that route; doing so means that Engarde will either be victimised further or that Gant will welcome him back with open arms. And neither of those situations is ideal."

So that's what seems to lie between Gavin and behaviour which could get him isolated:  _Engarde_.

I try a different tactic. Maybe it's that I'm stunned by my realisation, that I'm excited by the prospect that Gavin seems to be genuinely concerned with another human being, willing to risk his own safety and the pull of a simple life for someone else: and someone as messy and damaged and angry as Engarde.

"You care about Engarde, don't you?" I ask quietly.

He laughs in a shallow, unconcerned fashion. "What gives you  _that_  idea, doctor?" The spark is back in his eyes, he's amused. Or he's still terrified, for a different reason, and affecting a poker face.

"The way you speak about him," I say in monotone. It doesn't occur to me to be afraid of asking him personal questions any more. "The fact that you're concerned about his safety on the unit and you appear to enjoy his company."

"I'm  _fond of_  Engarde," he says. "And I do believe that life has been hard enough for him since arriving on the unit and I can admit to not wishing any further harm on him."

"It's more than that," I say coolly. "Isn't it, Mr. Gavin?"

"Perhaps I just enjoy being able to relieve myself of particularly bothersome urges every so often," he says in monotone. "Has  _that_  ever occurred to you?"

I don't say anything, and the look on his face hardens. 

"Are you implying something?" he asks.

"Yes… That you care about Matt Engarde."

"This is a move to give you some leverage, isn't it, doctor?" he asks coldly. "This is all a motivational game to you-- I do as you wish and admit to having some kind of sentimental attachment to Engarde, you then wish to advise me that killing someone in self-defense will result in Engarde being removed from my cell-- it's that sort of thing, isn't it, hmm? All a means to manipulate and control me?"

I start disagreeing with him-- the "N" of a "no" is about to leave my lips, but Gavin cuts me off. "Please don't confuse tolerance with affection," he says sharply. "I always thought you were smarter than that."

"I think it's obvious that Engarde cares about  _your_  welfare," I point out-- "After all-- the glasses..."

He stares at me cold and still; without the glasses, his pupils look bigger and the effect is unnerving and wild, like he's possessed, as though he could strike out at me. "He's been sharing his medication with you, hasn't he?" I ask.

And that's when he stands up. "No," he says. 

"We found your little stash."

"I'm aware of that," he continues. "And I wish for this session to be terminated now." Standing over me, unruly and scary, he looks at my radio. "Aren't you going to radio for someone to escort me back onto the unit?" he asks.

"No," I tell him, "I want to hear the rest of it-- I want to know about Engarde's little tranquilizer collection." I look him in the eyes, deliberate and annoyed. "Harbouring contraband is an offence, Mr. Gavin, and if the staff suspect conspiracy..."

"We'll be sent to solitary?"

"I'm sure you've both had it explained that you'll be separated for the safety of the unit."

He turns his head to the side, angry and resentful and still rebellious. "It was nothing like that," he says. "The tablets were held for personal use."

"I don't quite believe that," I tell him. I'm getting annoyed.

"Don't, then," he says coolly. "Now, may I head out on my way?"

 

"I want you to tell me what the sleeping tablets were for." Suddenly, it's become a battle of wills. This whole time I've been seeing him, it's been push-and-pull, push-and-pull, an attempt to get answers out of him, and he's only given what he's wanted to-- he's manipulated us-- or felt as though he was. And many of those answers didn't matter in the long term; this one  _does_. And I  _want_  an answer to this as much as Parke does.

"I know you do, doctor," he says quietly.

"I  _need_  to know," I say angrily. "Because right now, Mr. Gavin, it's looking like conspiracy and with your concerns, along with Engarde's, about your safety, it doesn't take much imagination from the staff here to suspect that you're planning on harming someone else on the unit."

"May I assure you that wasn't the case?" he asks, with a slight, sweet, vaguely submissive smile.

"Unless I see a better reason, I'm not going to believe it and I doubt anyone else is."

He's smiling at me still, a look on his face as innocent as a school teacher. "Will I fall victim to any kind of punishment if I tell you?" he asks. 

"If you were planning on killing some--"

"I realise," he says calmly, "That a small amount of diazepam such as that would not be fatal, and that the prison pharmacy-- as well as  _you_ \-- are mindful of removing unnecessary suicide risks." There's a glimmer in his eyes. "Even in the solitary confinement cells, now, I've heard."

I don't bite, I ignore his comment about  _that_ , and he does, too, because he continues about the pills. "And so, I never had any sort of delusion that I was handling a potentially lethal substance there."

He looks embarrassed, almost. "May I leave now?" he asks pleasantly. 

"I need to know what the pills were for."

"They were Engarde's," he says. He looks humiliated, eyes moving, squinting again-- at the floor near his feet. "And they were for  _personal_  use."

"Why wasn't Engarde taking them, then? Why was he storing them and returning to the unit with them?"

"You'll have to ask  _him_  about that," he says. "That's his business."

"Mr.  _Gavin_." I narrow my eyes at him. "I'm not playing games with you."

"Nor I with you," he tells me. He sighs, looking away from me. "If this could be exempt from the record because it contains information you received from me about another inmate, something which I'm _really_  not at liberty to discuss with you--" I find myself staring at him, silent and confused-- "then--  _fine_." His voice has risen slightly, despite his attempt at sounding in control. "Engarde wanted to engage in sexual activities with him while he was intoxicated," he says. There's furious, cold loathing and anger in his voice. "I do not understand  _why_ , as I fail to understand a number of Engarde's interests and proclivities-- but I  _can_  assure you, that was what he was saving them for."

There's humiliation in his voice; if he's telling the truth, which I believe he is, I can understand his embarrassment. 

"That's-- er-- not what those pills were prescribed for," I say blankly. 

"I realise that," he says. "And as I previously stated before, I don't understand his fascination myself, but--"

Something has occurred to me. "Do you find yourself giving into Engarde's sexual demands because you feel forced to?" I ask, tentative and concerned. "Is there some sort of...?"

He laughs. "Not at all," he says. "Again-- and add this to the record if you so desire and if it ceases the embarrassing questions which are making you squirm uncomfortably as much as I am trying not to-- everything that has occurred between Engarde and myself has been mutually consensual." There's a dark smirk on his face. "And much of the time, quite enjoyable."

I'm still looking at him blankly. 

"If you would like some more details..." he offers, tantalising, taunting,  _daring_  me to ask for them.

"It must take a great deal of trust to ask for something like that," I tell him. 

He grimaces. "No one trusts anyone in here," he says.

"Except Engarde seems to trust you a great deal." 

He stands up again and looks at the door. "Doctor," he says coolly. "Our time is up."


	13. How to Survive Chaos and Disorder

For all the contacts and friends and associates and people he had on the outside, for all the glamorous parties and the success, for all the extravagance and eccentricity and the whirlwind epic drama at high speed that was his life, Redd White's funeral was a stark contrast: a lonely, unhappy ending.

It seemed fitting for the event that the sun still shone, that even the weather didn't seem to acknowledge his passing and the ceremony; it was a pleasant day and I stood there, amongst others like me-- people in attendance because we'd vaguely known the man towards the end of his life. 

It was sombre and numb, in spite of the sunshine, and I recognised everyone in attendance barring a woman in her early thirties who stood near the front; well-dressed in a dull rose suit and high heels which seemed irreverent at a funeral-- and a black veil covering painfully styled pink hair. I assumed she'd known him at some stage but didn't inquire further. Of everyone there, she seemed to be the most genuinely saddened by his death.

Lily, Parke, Towne and deNong and I attended as representatives of the prison. There were no family members, it seemed, no other associates of his and a life he'd had before the life behind bars. Standing near us, not too far away and trying to hide the oddly pained expression on his face, and the tears which fell at one stage-- was Miles Edgeworth, uncharacteristically dressed in a dark grey suit and standing alone. A far way in the distance behind us was Wright, waiting and looking on with a sense of horror. As the coffin was lowered into the earth-- it appeared that White had paid off his own plot and an elaborate white marble headstone in the years before-- I saw Wright move closer towards him, putting an arm around his waist awkwardly, and the two walked away in silence. 

There was no eulogy and there was no wake. It reminded me of the haunting sort of closure people need when a former loved one is executed-- the same musty silence, grief which isn't, a sense of being there to see what needs to be done-- be done. 

  
We drove back to work not saying much; we'd carpooled thanks to Parke's suggestion in one of the work cars, and he kept his eyes on the road and the radio off. Lily, who'd been White’s last caseworker, kept up a brave face for most of the trip, her eyes huge and stoic as though it was just an everyday part of life when you worked in this sort of job. 

"I still can't completely get over it," she murmured softly as we stepped out, and none of the rest of us said anything.

She and Towne walked into the airlock, deNong gave us a curt nod and headed back to the administration offices, and Parke and I decided to take a pre-returning-to-work cigarette break. There was still silence hanging around us, both of us lost in thought for awhile, until, perhaps tired of it and the awkwardness, Parke opened his mouth. 

"I had Engarde come up to me this morning," he tells me vaguely, and I flick the ash from my cigarette and look up. "He says someone decided to send a hunting knife to Wellington in the mail this morning."

I wasn't expecting to hear  _that_ , and the expression on my face gives it away. "You don't say."

"Yeah," he says, "It's the fucken cold war in there right now. Makes me wonder what Team Gavin are getting up to."

"I found out about the stockpile of the sleeping tablets," I tell him. Again, I almost feel like I'm betraying Engarde in mentioning it. "I hadn't gotten around to documenting it--" was that because I was hoping it would slip my mind?-- "Apparently Engarde wanted them for a sex aid."

Parke bursts out laughing, raising his eyebrows now, incredulous and amused. "Geez!" he says. "You think you've heard everything here and then..."

"This information came from  _Gavin_ ," I tell him, "So it could be him covering for something worse."

Parke's expression changes. "You could be right," he says. "Whatever it is... I'm  _really_  thinking that they ought to be split up soon. I'm not liking the way things are going down right now."

I nod. "Then they're both arguing that they want to go to protective."

"Gavin's informed me that next time he assaults someone, it will be lethal," I tell him. "And he sounded  _scared_."

Parke smiles in a deadpan sort of way. "They all sound scared when they want to-- just the other day we had Engarde talking about how he's going to kill every last one of us when he was put in isolation."

  
"And that wasn't a threat?"

"Nope." He crushes the stub that's left of his cigarette out against the wall behind him. "Any more monkey business between them-- I don't care what it is; I see them doing  _anything_  that looks suspicious-- and they're separated. End of story; I can't deal with headgames while we're on the brink of a particularly nasty gang war."

"Gavin's worried that Engarde will go back to Gant."

"So?" Parke asks. "Let him if he wants to. Though Gant seems to be all about Crescend right now." He shrugs, and we head back in through the airlock.

And I do a double-take when I see who's waiting by the desk jockeys.

 

 

* * *

He's short and red and rangy, like a grasshopper-- and the likeness is only helped along by the two antennae-like spikes shooting up from his forehead, where a fringe should be. 

He's got big brown eyes and a baby face which makes me hope he's never stupid enough to decide on a career change in corrections, a slight tan, and a voice that's too grown up and loud for him. Right now, he's talking to the desk jockeys, his face serious, his head giving a few nods.

"Can I arrange to visit him at some stage?" he asks seriously.

It's Apollo Justice.

I've seen pictures of him in the news, but confronted with him right now, with his tense, serious little face, his suit and his  _compactness_  causes me to stop in my tracks.

"We need clearance, which can take up to a week for non-professionals," Grant, the guy behind the admin desk says to him lazily, "You need to be approved, ID-ed..."

"I  _am_  a professional," he says defiantly. He thumbs his lapel, thrusting it forwards. "I'm a defense attorney." 

Grant cracks a slight smile. "Are you  _his_  defense attorney?" he asks.

For a moment, Justice looks torn between offering a "yes" and telling the truth. "No," he says slowly. 

"Well," Grant says, passing over some forms to him; "Go fill those out and we'll see what we can do for you." Justice nods and takes the papers, moving along the counter to begin filling them out.

I walk past, stunned. I'm not just looking at a potential visitor or some run-of-the-mill lawyer, I'm looking at Gavin's assistant, his protege, the kid he took in and... had some level of attachment to.

My main question, when I think about it in the confines of my office, is  _why is he showing up_ now _?_

 

You get used to the routine when the new ones come in.

Behr is a different breed; untroubled, it seems, by the taunts and the catcalls as he's walked onto the unit-- I can hear them from the corridor; he holds his head high and walks with the gait of a man still dignified.

Of course, he's wearing prison issue clothing now, the drab charcoal grey which never fits properly until they've been here a few weeks, cheap but durable garb designed for hard times and hard labor. He's been processed and strip-searched, and holding a towel and a few cosmetic essentials-- deodorant, toothpaste, a short-handled prison toothbrush and sachets of cheap economy class shampoo and a block of soap, he walks, directed by Waverley and Towne-- up to his new cell.

He's been assigned to share with Gant.

  
That was Parke's logic; Behr was assigned to A-wing much to our mutual irritation, thanks to his strange list of demands-- as someone with both a notorious reputation and a need to be observed, Parke argued that keeping an eye on Behr would mean we could keep an eye on Gant at the same time without arousing suspicion. I raised my eyebrows as he'd said that, the two of us watching at the man with the salt-and-pepper hair and the hard face disappeared into his cell with Gant and we entered my office.

"You suspect  _Gant's_  up to something?"

"I want to know whether Gavin and Engarde really are at risk or if they're trying to smokeball us into something. If Gant  _is_  threatening them, I wanna see it-- if not, I want to find out why they want us to think he is."

"Wasn't what happened to Gavin the other day enough evidence for you?" 

He looks at me witheringly. "Remember Wellington's little bitchfit about how Gavin and Engarde seem to get away with getting their own way all the time?" he asks.

"Yeah?" I sit down at my desk.

"A little birdy's been talking on the unit," he says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Apparently Gavin's also given people the idea that he's into mutually consensual assault."

I don't quite understand. 

"Remember when you started your regular sessions with Gavin? Because Wellington was in the hospital?"

I nod.

"According to Wellington, Gavin  _asked him_  to hit him-- hard as he could."

The thought of Gavin doing that doesn't fit together with everything else I know of him. " _Why_?" I ask. "And if he wanted to be hit, why did Wellington spend so long in the hospital afterwards?"

"I have no idea," Parke says. "My  _suspicion_  so far is either that there was some type of understanding that soured between them or that Gavin wanted a  _reason_  to fight back. Justified self-defense."

"Why Wellington?" I ask, turning on my computer and waiting for it to load up. "And why is he talking about it  _now_?" 

"That one's easy enough-- I suspect given the Gavin-Gant tension, he's wanting to fling enough shit around the place to get Gavin to lose it... and therefore get him isolated."

"Or to justify an attack upon him?" I suggest.

"Yep." Parke doesn't look happy; he looks grim and annoyed. "Hence my reasoning of not wanting to separate Gavin and Engarde-- I don't want  _Gant_  and his pals to think that we play into  _their_  games." He grimaces. "As soon as I get a compelling reason that doesn't involve speculation or rumours-- I'm splitting them." He sighs. "I don't trust either of them lately."

"Why?" I'm surprised to hear myself asking that. "What's changed for you?"

"I..." He looks blank for a moment, his voice slowing uncomfortably. "I don't know. I just have this gut feeling and I don't like it."

"They're on obs, aren't they?"

"Yeah-- I've argued that Gavin's vulnerable because of the loss of his glasses, and that Engarde's desire to consume a large amount of sleeping pills could be deemed self-injury or superficially suicidal behaviour."

I can't help but smile slightly. "That's sneaky."

"It's staying one step ahead," he says dryly. He doesn't believe what he's saying, and he quickly changes the topic.

 

"Now-- Mr. Peder Behr." He's smiling in that bothered, smile-or-else-I'll-rage-or-cry kind of way-- "Correction--  _Smokey_ ," he says. "It seems that Behr is connected enough to know what sort of treatment sex offenders receive in here, so we're under strict orders to keep it on an informal name basis with the guy."

"He can  _make us do that?_ " I stretch in my chair and hear it creak behind me.

"Apparently so-- I'm not kidding when I tell you he's connected-- he's got friends that go  _way_  back, and he refused to say  _anything_ , pretty much, in court. He just took it, knowing his connected lawyers could get him a sweet deal in here."

"And there I was thinking Gavin had friends in high places last time."

"Don't get me started on that." 

Gavin's previous prison stint-- the seemingly psychotic and senseless murder of the man in the poker room-- and his apparent unbalanced behaviour towards staff-- had earned him his own luxury suite in Solitary. 

Cell thirteen became a joke-- I didn't know the full details because he consistently refused therapy and the staff seemed to be managing him well enough on their own, but his persuasive nature and pleasant temperament earned him friends, as did his connections outside the prison: first the books started arriving, then came the chair, then after some complaints about lack of space, someone organised for a bookcase from the woodwork shed to be brought up to him.

When he was returned to prison, staff looked at him less favorably. Initially he'd been a possibly crazed murderer who killed a man in cold blood but who was otherwise pleasant and easy to deal with and a born communicator-- he returned a man who'd conned and connived and played on people's friendship and kindness. 

And  _then_  there was the fact that he'd planned on killing a little girl.

 

Staff had asked for transfers to other units, some had left outright-- Gavin wasn't to be pampered and spoiled-- "Remember," Dan deNong had told us in a meeting following Gavin's return to prison-- "The types of men we are dealing with here. They're not nice people." 

A few staff still secretly liked him; a small handful-- ironically, when his trained service dog attacked another prisoner-- an incident which wasn't exactly Gavin's fault, as he said-- ( _he_  didn't order it to attack anyone, after all) his popularity was on par with any average Joe Bloggs inside. He wasn't a good guy, he wasn't trusted, but he was capable of being easy to handle.

"Don't tell me we've got another kid-gloves, Cell Thirteen case?" 

Parke nods. "That's  _precisely_  what's worrying me. We have all these rules set up for him, and he's no idiot-- and he's got himself a nice expensive lawyer who he'll ring in a heartbeat if we fuck up." He gets a new look in his eyes, a concerned look. "And then there's the media."

I always wonder if Parke's unnecessarily worried about the media who seem to hover over the place like a vague threat which we can't really predict as much as we'd like to: they're like an acid rain cloud. Parke is overly cautious, obviously.

"Why would the media care?" 

  
"He's a  _celebrity_. Crime fascinates people, and this guy is connected to all the big names-- mobsters, contract killers, the very wealthy and slightly seedy-- and more than likely, the DPP. Why not the newspapers and a few TV stations too? If word gets out we're not looking after him, all hell's going to break loose."

I nod. "How long do we have him?"

"He got thirty years. I'm sure we'll see him talking to his lawyer and trying to make sure he doesn't  _do_  thirty." He sighs, and hands me a file. There's a picture stapled to the front; for a moment it's almost amusing-- Parke and Behr have similar expressions on their faces and the same sort of hair colour. Otherwise, they don't look alike, but there's that they look older than they are, as though they've lived more life than they should have by their ages.

"I'll leave this with you," he says.

"Is he in need of assessment?"

"Nope. No psych history. The arson's purely motivated by financial gain."

And he's a career criminal with connections. I wonder if he's been sanctioned from having to deal with me, too.

"He might be brought in for an assessment," Parke tells me, "No big deal-- he seems pretty straightforward-- he just wants to do his time and get the hell back to his kids." 

I flip open the cover of the file. It's noted that he's got two teenage children, a daughter and a son. "At least he's got a motivator for good behaviour, I guess."

That's when Parke grimaces again. "We're not to mention his kids, either," he says. "Rumour has it they're getting them into witness protection because of some of Behr's associates on the outside."

"But... didn't he say anything?" 

"Yeah, but how's anyone to know he's staying quiet while he's here?"

I swear under my breath, and Parke gives me one of those smiles I want to punch him for-- and leaves. 

I've forgotten about the original discussion we were having-- the Gavin and Gant drama; but I'm reminded of it again whilst thinking about Behr as I'm reading his file. Like Gavin-- and Engarde-- he's got something to lose in that he has a connection with someone else. 

I'm scared for his children, considering who he's sharing a cell with.

 

 

 

Strangely enough, the day ends on a vaguely quiet, easy sort of  _tired_  note. It's not the artificial peacefulness which comes when you know there's  _something in the air_ , nor is it the type exhausted you feel after a major incident; it's like a breather, the kind of end to a chapter where you all go home sated and pleased and tired, it's a not-very-bad day, but you're left with a lot on your mind. 

But none of it's so heavy that you can't appreciate the little things-- an easy ride home with no congested traffic, pleasant enough radio hits on the airwaves, and the knowledge that I'm doing dinner with Lauryn later in the evening. 

I feel vaguely guilty that I haven't spoken to Lauryn much lately, not sure whether to express concern and offer assistance, or to keep my distance and wait for her to approach me. Lauryn's the type who likes dealing with things herself in a lot of cases; if she thinks others doubt her ability to do so, any stress she's feeling seems to compound. It's strange, for someone who spends a good deal of her time telling others to share their problems, and stranger still that for someone in the public eye and regularly doing chat show segments and book signings, she's so close to bordering on what others would see as fragile.

In the end, I caved in and called her; her break seemed to be enough for her to get her head together and return to the office refreshed and relieved-- on the phone, at least, she sounded like her regular calm and in control self. We'd agreed to dinner at my place; a glance around when I step inside makes me rethink that. I text her suggesting she come round but we'll eat out. 

My humble abode is my second home, I realise to myself; I spend so much time at work that besides eating, sleeping, and getting changed for work, I tend to do very little in what are meant to be my surroundings. I'd agreed to pick up some more shifts as I was needed, and the overtime's been nice, but noting a picture of Anna and Liz which sits above the stereo in the living room area, I'm reminded somewhat painfully of the fact that it was this job, this life-- at a much more humane pace, back then-- which allowed my family to fall away from me. 

 _I_  allowed it to do that, I think to myself as my phone beeps with a text message from Lauryn stating that she's on her way over. And now they're gone, I don't have much left  _but_  my job. It consumes the time, eating into more of my life than it had before, changing and shaping me in ways I probably haven't even noticed; it's the stench of blood or fish guts on a butcher's or fishmonger's garb, something that doesn't quite disappear, no matter how well you wash the uniform.

  
I think randomly about Behr as I'm waiting. Behr's daughter is a little older than Anna. I find myself wondering how she feels about the fact that her dad is dealing with crooks and corporate scum and contract killers in a day's work, and the comparison to Anna who's dad does the same thing but from a different angle.

Behr, from all reports, cares about his children. The paperwork stated that they'd been attending private schools and that he maintained a friendly relationship with their mother which appeared to have broken down because of the nature of his work.

Thinking about it like that makes me feel a mixture of guilt and sadness.

 

When Lauryn arrives, she doesn't look as well as she sounded on the phone; she doesn't look tired or drained, but there's an uncertainty in her movement, and once we're done with the informal hellos, there's an uncomfortable space of nothing to say, as though she's not sure whether or not she wants to talk.

"How's work?" she asks vaguely. "I heard Smokey the Bear's going to be in for awhile. The media have been going crazy-- I'm surprised they haven't set up camp on the prison grounds or something."

"I haven't met him yet," I tell her. "But I've heard he's easy enough to deal with and that he probably won't be seeing me."

She looks almost disappointed for a moment. In the light I catch a sparkle of something around her neck, a small, gold "L" on a chain with a row of diamonds through the middle of it.

"Been shopping?" I ask. It's typically Lauryn-style jewellery, classy and understated and expensive-looking. Her hand moves to it idly and she clutches the chain, a gesture of almost self-consciousness. 

"No," she says slowly. "A client insisted on buying it for me."

"I've had clients offer to steal cars for me," I tell her, "And rumour has it that when a few of the Rivaleses came down with gastro in the hospital wing, the head doctor was sent a crate of Bollinger from the Kitaki family."

She barely cracks a smile.

"Perhaps I should go into your line of work instead."

There's a quiver in her voice and her eyes widen; for a moment there, I wonder if she's going to cry. 

"I didn't know how to refuse," she said. "I  _tried_ , but... he's not at all dangerous, he's just  _lonely_ \-- it seems he's only got a handful of people close to him and..."

I suspect I know what she's talking about.

"Is this...?" I don't even need to say his name and she nods. "They moved him to the psych unit a couple of days ago," she tells me. "Because he was talking about killing himself."

I don't know what to say. I want to ask an incredulous,  _But I thought you said he seemed better_ \-- but I can't. Perhaps the shock of what happened to him has only just set in. 

"I'm so sorry," I tell her.

"And his lawyer friends who seem to know what's going on-- they've got their own problems lately so they haven't been visiting as frequently, either--  _plus_  Apollo Justice is back in the country and I think he feels guilty about the--"

"I saw Justice the other day," I tell her. "After Redd White's funeral; I was walking back in, and this little guy with a red suit and spikes in his hair--"

"Justice?" she asks. She sounds horrified. "Why was he coming in-- he usually only deals with clients in remand or the lockup cells..."

"I was wondering the same thing." It's not that I'm not used to seeing lawyers on the unit in visits; I'm used to seeing state-appointed attorneys, though, mob lawyers, not names who've been in the papers. With one notable exception... and he isn't a lawyer any more. 

"I've seen Phoenix Wright there before," I tell her absently. 

She doesn't look impressed. "I  _know_  about that." She looks confused, though. "I just don't know what compelled Apollo to call in." She's curious even though she knows she shouldn't be. "How long was he there for? Who did he see?"

"He didn't get in," I tell her. "He went up to the front desk and they didn't have his ID on record as a professional visit, so he was told he couldn't just wander in."

The look on her face is darkening. "I suspect he didn't tell anyone about that," she says. "Because if he  _did_ , they'd have told him about the ID issue and that you don't just go calling in for a visit..."

"Has he gone to see Klavier?"

  
"I think so," she says. There's a twitch in her mouth and she looks as though she's going to start telling me things she knows she shouldn't. "I think there's a bit of tension between them after what happened; the stunt and then the fact that Apollo was overseas when all this happened and..." She sighs. "I know things haven't been particularly happy in that household since Redd White died."

I nod. I'm not sure where she's going with it but can make a few guesses. "All the issues with the Gavins were bringing up a few tensions because they're all, in some way, connected to them-- Phoenix was involved with Kristoph romantically for six years, Miles is still reeling about what happened  _there_ , Apollo was in some sort of relationship with Kristoph for a while" -- I find myself thinking about the way he talked about Apollo and inadvertently shudder-- "And then there was the whole publicity stunt Klavier and Apollo went along with as a kind of prank to show Kristoph that they were moving on with their lives..."

So that was what it was all about.

"So it was all for Kristoph's benefit?" Benefit seems like such a strange word to use in this context.

She nods.

"How on earth do you  _know_  all this?" I'm stunned. I find myself wondering if her next book is going to be called  _The Secret Lives of Lawyers_.

"Because I've been seeing all three of them." Her voice is completely devoid of humour. "I've known Miles for  _years_  on and off-- he's had a chaotic international schedule but it seemed that whenever he was in the US, he'd pay me a visit... after he and Wright reconnected, Wright was referred to me-- I suppose they referred Justice somehow, and Klavier had been seeing me since the Gavinners were still together, back when I was starting to become more prominent."

"I hope you schedule your appointments carefully."

She smiles then. "I try," she says. "When three people are living under one roof and they're all seeing the same therapist..." She laughs dryly. "It would be hilarious if they weren't all as messed up as they are." Her voice turns serious again. "Redd White's death has caused a lot of tension in the household, too-- I imagine you can understand why for Phoenix at least, since White was the one who killed his mentor-- and for Miles... well... Miles had a different relationship with him."

I nod. "I worked with White before he died," I say.

Both of us drop that discussion. We've already said too much, crossed lines we shouldn't have, and to talk about the situation with White and Edgeworth and blackmail and abuse is going a step further. I don't know if she knows what I do, she doesn't know if I know what I suspect she knows. 

I hate the idea that I might be playing head games with her without intending to or even realising it.

"Let's stop talking shop tonight," I tell her with a limp, half-hearted smile. 

She shakes her head enthusiastically and we smile at one another. 

I don't think either of us are convinced, and it feels supremely  _awkward_  trying to discuss other topics throughout the evening. 

And the awkwardness isn't just on my side, I suspect.

 

 

 

 

 

Here's what I'm conscious of: we're at a funeral.

By us, I mean  _everyone_ ; I mean my colleagues, I mean Lauryn, who is standing somewhere in the distance and looking haunted and bewildered, and not quite looking me in the eye, and I mean Parke and Waverley and Towne and Caster and deNong, for some reason, Lily and Roy and Miss Grave and the Field brothers and Stone and Venn and  _everyone_.

I'd be wondering who is looking after the inmates in the prison, or if they've just been locked down and left-- but for the fact that they're all there, too.

They're in grey suits, tailored and styled in the same sorts of ways the men do with their uniforms in the prison or reminiscent of the clothes they wore when they arrived; Gant has his collar turned out, a black shirt exposed beneath, Armando is wearing a charcoal vest beneath his suit as he did in his glory days, Crescend's suit is skintight and manages to show off the ripple of muscles beneath, Callander's is buttoned up all the way and he looks even more childlike than usual, Wellington's wearing a black sweater tied around his shoulders like some sort of preppy, Plan's shirt beneath the jacket is unbuttoned to expose a tanned, smooth, muscular portion of his chest, Engarde is...

 _Where's Gavin?_  I can't see him there. I look around in panic and see the priest at the front of the crowd, who I'd never noticed before-- he's standing over a hole in the ground, speaking so quietly that no one can hear him. The sky around us is overcast and the cloud cover is thick and bland; it's possibly afternoon but who knows? 

I catch a murmur of the name  _Redd White_  and that's when I realise that this is a dream. Some part of me is almost pleased that White got his big, lavish, respectful funeral.

I stand there, watching, waiting, as we all are.

And then the grass next to the priest's foot shakes, like something's about to hatch from beneath it. No one else notices, I realise, when I turn behind me; then there's a clod of earth that pops up, and I'm transfixed, hoping that someone else will see it, wanting to say something and yet to not be disrespectful and ruin the one chance at a decent funeral that White's getting.

Fingers, long and slender and streaked with dirt, emerge from the dirt, popping out evilly and slowly.

No one has seen anything. I clear my throat tactfully as a wrist pops up from the earth, the sleeve of another grey suit, another hand rising to the surface.

I can hear people crying behind me, but they're looking at the hole in the ground, murmuring about fond memories of Redd White-- a head follows the arms-- I can't see the face, I can see the back of him and I already know who he is.

No one else is looking at him or the pile of dirt surrounding him. He somehow propels himself out of the earth, glasses intact, funnily enough, and turns around. Catching the horror in my eyes, he winks. He's holding what appears to be a tie in his hands; his expression is smug and intense, he's doing whatever this is for my benefit.

I'm yelling out to everyone, to the priest, to the other mourners; no one is listening. I can feel my throat growing hoarse and my screams and gestures more frantic as no one seems to notice anything out of the ordinary.

Gavin stalks behind the priest. He's filthy and yet somehow a lot less dirty than he should be for someone who's just crawled out of the ground. The poor priest is still talking about the loss of Redd White, still unaware of the impending threat-- and Gavin snaps the tie with a short, sharp tug in his hands and gives me a triumphant smile.

I wake up screaming as he's standing behind the priest, the tie in his hands and at in front of the other man's throat. 

 

 

The dream isn't at all about anything, I tell myself over a cup of coffee in the kitchen.

I feel cold; coffee is a sensible idea-- I'm awake and I'm  _staying_  awake now, nothing can make me fall asleep after that, but I can feel somewhat  _warmed_. The dream-- the nightmare-- is only a natural reaction to my surroundings and the people in it and recent stimuli and situations. It's my brain doing an info dump.

Nonetheless, I'm not liking the lack of sleep, the disruption to my sleep, and the fact that the dreams are  _unnerving_  in this fashion.

When Liz and Anna left, I had dreams that I was falling, or that I was just  _alone_ , no matter wherever I went. The backgrounds were never this detailed, there wasn't much to remember. It was my brain processing grief and loss, I suspected, and the dreams went away in their own time.

I'm already hoping these ones will go away soon.

* * *

I decide to vary my routine because I can't just show up at work three hours early, and I can't hope for a traffic jam or a disaster to cause me to sit at the wheel in virtual standstill, sleep threatening to push me over the edge. 

I find myself in a cafe for breakfast, I read through the paper. No news is good news, I suppose, there's nothing about anything I need to worry about. The mayor's proposing tightening littering laws. Some actresses are promoting speying pets. The Berry Big Circus has a new show opening soon. Incuritis has been showing up more frequently in the US and the government is wanting tighter quarantine regulations. An Ivy U student was let off on a caution but expelled after it was found that he was making methamphetamine in the science labs. 

All is quiet this morning. There are no horror articles about anyone in prison, about Klavier Gavin, about anyone  _going_  into prison, nothing.

I enjoy a danish and a coffee and head on my way to work. Today feels calm and promising. But I need to deal with the sleep problem, and at this point, I'm not sure how to.

* * *

  
There haven't been any major developments since yesterday afternoon. According to notes in my email, there has been a bit of sniping between Gant's group and Gavin and Engarde, Wellington feigned ignorance about the knife which arrived in the mail and so is on observations, and positive interactions have been observed between Engarde and Callander.

Behr, from all reports, has been behaving himself. 

Parke rings to tell me that I have a basic assessment to do on him, to see if we can take him off observations since he appears to be perfectly balanced and settled. On the other end of the phone, I raise my eyebrows. "That's not procedural," I point out darkly. "Isn't it three days in most cases, especially when they're notorious or dangerous?"

"He was apparently advised of his rights from his lawyer," Parke says. "I wouldn't be surprised if we get  _more_  godamned  _special conditions_  that come in with this one."

"Who advised him about the obs?" I ask. "Didn't they just tell him he was stuck with them until he appeared settled?" I pause, already working out the answer. "It was Waverley, right?"

I think Parke nods, because I don't hear anything for a moment, and then he cheerily informs me once again that I get to meet the infamous Smokey the Bear. 

Admittedly, I'm curious about him. He's half shadowy legend, half sentenced criminal. The way I'm feeling reminds me of how I felt before Engarde was brought in. Engarde was frantic and paranoid, though, and Engarde had been abandoned by pretty much everyone, barring a few devoted fans. 

Behr isn't like that, as I already know. Behr has maturity and a brain unscrambled by fame and drugs and the sting of adoration being taken away. Behr's a professional.

 

 

Hamm leads him in, and the door closes behind him. I'm not frightened, not even apprehensive-- the way he walks up to the desk, looks at the chair and then at me as though asking if he can sit down ("Take a seat, Mr. Behr") and just  _sits_  is so damned  _normal_  that I feel like I could be in that nice plush office in the hills.

"Hello," I say evenly.

He looks the part of a hitman from a Hollywood blockbuster, there's something slightly shady, slightly ruggedly handsome about him, and something disturbingly John Doe normal about him, which probably has been what helped him evade capture for so long. He extends a hand to me and I shake it. His grip is firm and comfortable, as though he's accustomed to shaking hands and securing deals.

I don't want to think about him trying that with me.

"Hello, doctor-- you're the prison psychiatrist, aren't you?" He's well-spoken and there's the slightest dash of an accent in his voice which I can't place. Despite the fact that he was sentenced to thirty years, I can't see him doing that long. He's beautifully behaved, will appear to have a high chance of rehabilitation, and unlike many of the others, he has a motivating factor to get him to the other side of the prison walls. Two motivating factors. 

"Yes," I tell him. "We're just going to do an assessment today, to see where you are and if I can help you out with anything."

He nods. "I doubt I'm in need of psychiatric assistance," he says coolly. "But I suppose that's what everyone in denial, or with mental health problems says to you, isn't it?" He flashes a smile; he's got even, white teeth. If he were a bit better looking and a few years younger, he'd be a perfect politician.

"What do you need from me?" he asks. "I was of the understanding that I was assessed when I was admitted." He sounds curious, not defensive. "I haven't had any drug or alcohol issues, no mental health problems, and I haven't been involved with the police over criminal matters..." He stops himself there. "I'm strictly professional," he tells me. "Unfortunately for some people, my profession involves destruction of their property."

"And what made you consider such a profession?" I ask him. He's smiling at me slightly. I'm smiling at him. "I doubt the high school guidance counsellor suggested a life of crime to you."

He chuckles, and he sounds genuinely amused. "No," he says. "I fell into this line of work once I'd finished serving in Cohdopia in that failed peace-keeping mission back in '13." He's still smiling. I didn't know he had a military history.

"What made you give that up?" I ask, mentally wondering if the man could have seen some things over there which might resurface.

"I was made compelling offers," he says. "Which were more convenient-- and economically viable at the time, and which afforded me a greater level of freedom-- than being in the army did." He looks perfectly unaffected. "It was a practical decision, not an emotional one." He's sounding perfectly casual about it. "I served my country and I have no misgivings or regrets whatsoever." A pause, and he folds his hands in his lap. "I suppose I was better suited to the line of work I found myself in, that's all."

"So what do you make of prison?"

He smiles slightly. "It's an occupational hazard, isn't it?" There's a casual shrug in his voice. "Of course I'm upset at not being able to see my kids when I want to, but I did the crime, I do the time, I suppose." There's a sparkle in his eye. "I'll cope with this."

"How are you finding the other inmates?"

He smirks. "They're interesting," he says. "Damon Gant has been a most accommodating host-- I suppose it's on the record that Gant and I knew some people in common when we were both free men-- he's doing a good job showing me the ropes." He nods. This is like watching water slide off a duck's back.

"And the others?"

"I've been warned about a few," he says, "And I do find some of Gant's associates to be a varied and colourful group." He stops himself. "It's funny, the people we become acquainted with, isn't it?"

I'm having horrible flashbacks to the previously unshakable Gavin when I first met him.

 

"I have been warned about Squints and the young man whose nickname I'd prefer not to repeat."

This is interesting. "Who are you referring to?" I ask. I know. Of  _course_  I know. 

"The homosexual couple," he says. There's no flicker of anything on his face. No disgust or anger or fear or anything to suggest that he finds their partnership abhorrent. "The man with the long blonde hair who squints all the time and his companion with the scars on his face."

"Oh?"

"Gant referred to them as Squints and  _CD_." 

I don't ask what the "CD" stands for even though I'm deathly curious. Prison slang suggests that someone who is bisexual is "AC/DC" so perhaps it's a reference to the fact that he's no longer able to sleep with women? I don't know. But the last thing I want to do is give this man the idea that we talk about other inmates in therapy, should he wish to return.

I nod. 

"Apparently Squints sent someone to the hospital for a few months and he bites when fighting." Behr's face hardens;  _this_  is where I see the flicker of disgust. "I don't like people who fight dirty," he says. 

I almost want to laugh at his naivete. 

"So you're settling in?" I ask.

"It seems to be the way," he replies. "I've been assigned work detail in the kitchen which suits me, I suppose I have to do something-- and I've seen that once I'm declared a lesser risk, I'm allowed to use the gym and the library." His voice brightens a bit at the prospect.

"So you enjoy reading?" 

He nods. "Everyone needs a hobby, don't they, and some mental stimulation is probably a good idea in here." There's a slight smile from him.

"Do you need anything else from me?" he asks.

"I'd like to talk a bit about your offending history," I tell him. This is strange; he appears balanced and open and reasonably friendly. I haven't had one like this in  _years_.

"Are we referring to the last job?" he asks.

I nod.

"I was commissioned to undertake that work," he says. "As a favour to an old friend." The look on his face changes again. "There was a particular urgency also, but I will not be speaking of that. I said what I needed to about my motivation whilst I was in court."

Which was hardly anything.

"I'm a man of honour," he tells me. "Which may appear incompatible with some of my activities and many others which are rumoured to be my work which  _are_  incompatible with my honour code-- I would never harm a child, for example--" And that's when his face tightens. "I have a particular loathing for those who harm the vulnerable and innocent," he says. "I refuse work which involves children; no child needs to be caught up in adult perversion or discord."

The stiff revulsion is still on his face.

"You are aware that there are inmates on the unit who  _have_  hurt children, are you not?" I ask quietly.

"Yes," he says. "And I would prefer to spend as little time in their presence as possible."

"You haven't felt inspired to  _harm_  them, have you?"

"No," he says. "I'm of the understanding that their punishment is to spend their time in the confines of the prison, and that many of them will never see natural daylight again anyway." He runs a hand through his grey-flecked hair. "They are of no concern to me," he says. "Unless, of course, I were to find one of them on the outside in the act of harming a child--  _then_  I'd have to say things would be different."

"So... no violent urges towards anyone?" I ask with a slight smile.

"Not at all," he says. He sinks back into his chair. "I merely want to complete as much of my sentence as I have to, and then return to a normal life on the outside," he tells me. "I'd like to see my children before they finish growing up. I have no reason to make this situation more difficult to achieve."

"No escape plans?" I ask.

"Being a fugitive would only make me look worse," he says. "And I suspect some contacts of mine on the outside make look down upon me for breaching the unspoken code amongst men of honor-- I've accepted my fate, I shall do my time." He smiles slightly. "I really have no desire to make things more difficult for myself."

 

 

 

 

"We had another incident this afternoon." Parke had unlocked and opened the door, disturbing my silence, to my irritation. This was looking up to be a pleasantly peaceful afternoon, all things considered.

"Yeah?"

I'd gathered that  _something had happened_  from the duress alarm which had sounded about an hour ago. 

I'd heard it, and I'd remained in my office, typing up some casual notes on Behr, who'd seemed, from my deduction, reasonably well-balanced. I'd called the facilities in his home town: no records of anything, just as he'd said.

He'd been in hospital once, for a broken finger which had happened when he was doing home repairs eight years ago. His decision to leave the army was just that; he'd been well-liked by his colleagues and his exit interview had shown that he showed no signs of PTSD.

Just your average everyday John Doe. 

Except that he was a career criminal.

  
In a few ways, he reminded me of some of the older-school mobsters and assassins we'd had in, men who, as Behr had put it, saw prison as a mere occupational hazard of the job. But while they were usually supported on the outside by "the family," Behr didn't seem to have that support. The cynic in me suspected there was an offshore account somewhere, or that things had been moved into his children's names. 

He was probably going to be a cakewalk; he had a motivation to behave himself inside, to not tarnish his record, to get out and see his children again, and he seemed intelligent enough to realise that. He wouldn't want to ruin his chances of parole, he'd probably keep to himself, another Armando. What concerned me was his involvement with Gant, however-- Gant being a lifer, who had absolutely nothing to lose, and who appeared to  _use_  anyone available to him for little more than his own amusement.

"What happened?"

"Who do you expect?" There's a grim sneer in Parke's voice.

"Why is this starting to feel like groundhog day, Mil?" I ask, the same tone to my voice. "Can't we just  _move_  someone?"

"Oh, it gets more serious today," Parke says wryly. "We now have two new players in the game-- it seems our boys have been recruiting."

"With award-winning personalities like theirs, I imagine that's some feat." I look up at him, my face blank, waiting for an explanation.

"Callander seems to have taken a shine to Gavin and Engarde, and according to Towne, Gant and Behr are now besties."

"Lovely."

"We've got an interesting scenario on our hands, too-- I've just received a report that the crime figure Damon Gant was talking to the other day on the phone was none other--"

"Than Behr?" I ask.

Parke does that trigger motion with his hand, like there should be some sort of zingy sound effect accompanying it.

"You got it."

"Does that mean he gets moved?" I ask nervously.

"It  _should_ ," Parke says, "But the fact that we had our little emergency this afternoon is more pressing. He's  _definitely_  being moved  _now_."

"Do his special conditions allow for--?" I start asking, eyebrows raised.

" _Fuck_  his special conditions," he says. "If his lawyers attack us for it, we can state that we believe his safety was at risk considering that Gant's been involved in a number of incidents around the prison-- and that as a new and vulnerable inmate, we wish for a high-profile offender such as Behr to remain safe."

"Protective custody?" I ask. "Gavin will kill you for that."

 

Parke smiles slightly. "I'd love to see the bastard  _try_." Parke's confidence, false or otherwise, disturbs me.

"I'd prefer not to," I tell him. "But--"

"We're not putting Behr in protective. We're going to have a talk to him after he's moved; if he gives us some names, tells us a few things that we know have been going on so we have some dirt on the Gant group-- or what happened this afternoon, then we'll have reasonable grounds to shift him  _for his own safety_." 

It's slick and it's shifty and it's using our protocol for purposes it wasn't intended for, and god, it's clever. Parke knows this, and beams at me. But I'm concerned about something else.

"What  _happened_  this afternoon?"

"Engarde's getting stitched up in the clinic right now," Parke says gravely. 

"Stitched  _up_?"

"Nothing serious," he says. "A physical altercation broke out between him and Wellington this afternoon; Wellington says he started it and came at him first and that it was just self-defense, Engarde says that Wellington was taunting him and that the Gant boys have threatened to kill Gavin."

"How does this end up in stitches?" I ask warily.

"Wellington says that he pushed Engarde away, and he hit his cheek on a fuse box in the general corridor which clipped him under the eye." He pauses. "I think there's a bit of truth in what both of them were saying, to be honest. But... I think Engarde's going to use this as supporting evidence of why he needs to go to protective."

"He doesn't want Gavin to stay here though," I tell Parke. "He was...quite adamant about that."

"How touching."

"He says Plan's revealed that they want Gavin dead."

"Don't they all say things like that?" Parke asks.

"They  _have_  been saying it for awhile."

"Gavin's also been manipulating everyone for awhile, and this could be just another one of his schemes." Parke pauses. "I wouldn't put it past Gavin for a  _minute_  to utilise Engarde as just another pawn and Engarde to be stupid and arrogant enough to believe he's  _special_."

I find myself thinking of Gavin's irritation when I pointed out that Engarde trusted him, but I don't know what to say. Was he irritated because I'd touched upon the trust because I was starting to figure out the plan? Was some part of him uncomfortable at the fact that he  _was_  using him?

Or was it something  _else_  which had made him hesitant to discuss Engarde with me? He'd certainly had no qualms about talking about how he'd had a particular fondness for Apollo Justice, and he'd touched upon his relationship with Phoenix Wright, and he'd been perfectly blase about what he'd done to Klavier.

"They don't want to be separated," I say softly. "It seems that they're both prepared to risk staying here as long as they're together."

"Safety in numbers," Parke says with a note of dismissal. "Which explains why they've brought Callander on board." He sighs. " _He's_  the one I'm worried about now," he says. "Because he's as dim as dog shit and those two are, well... a borderline and a sociopath. Callander will be twisted into a pretzel before he realises what they're up to, and he'll be too dumb and too scared to back out."

"We don't have any justification to split them up," I point out. "Especially not when Gant and his friends seem to be the instigators."

  
"Well, we need to get Behr and Gant moved elsewhere," Parke tells me. "And we'll do that tomorrow morning: Armando's got a parole hearing and if I know what I'm talking about, he'll get out, so we've got a spare bed in there."

"Who's he rooming with?" 

"Thomas Moreau." 

I've only met Moreau once, and he's another one who shouldn't be here-- a computer hacker and a fraudster who seemed mixed up with the wrong people and who didn't speak much about the murder he was apparently involved with. A low-grade inmate who goes about his business and who seems to avoid drawing attention to himself and remain reasonably well-behaved. 

"We could shift Behr in with Banks, and move Callander in with Moreau," Parke muses. "Moreau has no history with the Gant group and neither does Banks..." He works it out in his head. "We'll do it just after room inspections," he says thoughtfully.

I nod. "Sounds like a plan."

"If we can keep Behr away from this bullshit, all the better, I say," he says. I find it interesting that he decides to run things over me like this. "The only thing is  _does_  do is it means that we have no reason to be doing obs on Gant's cell."

"Well are you moving anyone else in there?" I ask. Parke hasn't considered that.

"Maybe move Moreau in there and keep Callander's room free in case we need to split up Gavin and Engarde?"  _In case we need to_. I hate the way I'm already suspecting they're up to something.

We're interrupted by another shrill blee-blee-blee of a duress alarm, and Parke visibly jumps to attention and races out of my office. "Gotta go," he offers as a quick farewell.

I don't just stay at my desk this time; watching someone run off to the action makes me wonder what's happened now. I follow him out the door, hear it slam behind me, and I stand on the catwalk and look down. 

I can see a flurry of bodies in the common area; a fight has erupted near the television screen; a circle of inmates are standing around, watching the two in the middle; workers are scrambling into the scrum-- I see Parke's thick build push in somewhere, a flurry of activity, Lily's making a "back off" motion with her hands towards the onlookers, and Towne and Hamm come in to pull them away from one another. There's a flip of blonde hair and-- 

Parke and Hamm have Behr, Towne has Gavin. While Behr looks as though he's barely broken a swear, Gavin looks pained and yet still furious. I can see blood on his face as he's pulled away, his hair is an unruly tangle of cornsilk chaos, and he's still struggling against Towne's force as he's lead away to isolation.

At least they have justification for room switches now, I suppose.

 

 

"So much for Behr's good behaviour," Hamm grumbles in the staff room as he nurses a cup of coffee.

I can smell the dry, smokey warmth of it, I'm  _craving_  it. But in the interests of good sleep hygiene, I'm only drinking water. It's eight-thirty, the unit's on lockdown after a minor scuffle between Crescend and Wellington, and Hamm and Towne are on break, there's nothing on TV, and I get the impression that they're still hopped up on adrenaline from the events earlier in the day.

"It's a  _very_  fucken unsettled unit lately," Towne says. "We're up to our necks in  _shit_."

"Armando's out of here tomorrow, at least," Hamm says with a slight smile. "I'm jealous of the bastard."

"At least he's too old to come  _back_."

"He wasn't a threat to the community anyway-- he had some weird ideas about protecting people, but-- yeah. I'll probably miss him."

"You say that about everyone," Towne gently chides him.

Lily walks in, looking extremely tired, in that messy, what-do-I-do- _now?_  sort of way.

"You're still here?" Towne asks her. "I thought you knocked off at seven."

"So did I," she says. "This'll make a fifteen hour shift, I guess." 

"Make sure you clock off for the overtime," says Hamm.

She nods. "Yeah, but deNong's gonna hate me for taking it." She looks up at the TV. "No news?" she asks.

"Is good news." Hamm sips his coffee again. "It's been a prick of a day in here," he continues, "Good thing we don't have more of these punks coming in."

"Tomorrow's gonna be fun," she says. "I'm glad I'm off-- who's volunteering to tell Behr he's moving?"

Hamm and Towne shake their heads. "He's a tough cookie," Towne says-- "You saw him out there, didn't you?"

Lily cocks and eyebrow at him. "I  _was_  there," she says. "I was the one telling Gant and Crescend not to get involved."

"What the hell was the whole Crescend and Wellington thing this afternoon, anyway?" Hamm asks. "I missed that one."

"Crescend just likes shit-stirring and lately Wellington's been complaining about things. It was just some verbal stuff followed by a few threats, and then Crescend threw a banana at him."

Lily chuckles. "I knew he had smuggled it out of the kitchen," she said. "Well,  _something_." She's at the sink, preparing herself a coffee. "I just wasn't going to leave myself open to innuendo." Her voice lowers and she affects Crescend's typical sneer. " _Yeah. You think I've got something in my pants, do ya? Wanna come and have a look?_  No way am I sticking my hands down his pants." She sounds perfectly disgusted, and I'm vaguely amused. Several years ago, women everywhere would have killed for the opportunity to do so.

"The one that freaked me out was Gavin," Towne says. "I saw the blood on his face and no one was wearing gloves, and... just..."

I sip my coffee and Lily takes a seat next to me.

"I think he's clean," she says. "Not that I'm supposed to say that, but... you know."

"I don't know, I don't wanna know," Hamm says. 

"What was that fight about, anyway?" I ask. I don't speak much, and they turn to look at me. "I was in my office when it happened."

"You missed Behr saying he'd heard Gavin was a diddler and that he hated diddlers-- and then Gavin stood up to protest and Behr just smacked him one. Just like  _that_ \-- it was..." There's excitement in his voice, and the sparkle in his eyes betrays his usual professionalism. "I mean-- I've got no  _issues_  with Gavin personally, but if I heard that about him and I didn't know him..."

"Is there any  _proof_ , though?" Towne asks. "I mean, you know what these guys are like; the best way to ruin someone's credibility is to say they're a ped or that they fucked their granny or something."

I look at him gravely and nod. I'm not allowed to talk about clients in a general sense to general workers; if they pose any risks because of their behaviours, I talk to Parke, deNong and the relevant case worker.

" _Oh_ ," Towne says, eyebrow raised. 

 

The conversation falls flat there, and we look around at one another uncomfortably. Lily concentrates on her coffee as does Hamm, and I stretch back in my seat, arms folded above my head, grateful for a relatively quiet, ordinary evening. 

"There's a bit of yelling going on out there," says Field as he walks in. He looks just as exhausted as the rest of us. "It's been  _really_  unsettled today, hasn't it?" He flops down onto a chair, sighing with relief.

"What's going on now?" 

"Catcalling; the usual-- Callander's going to fuck Behr's shit up--" he chuckles, because that idea, especially after what we witnessed today from Behr-- is borderline hilarious-- "Engarde's saying Behr's a cunt, Armando's telling them all to shut up, and Tigre is going to make Gavin and Engarde scream like the prissy little bitches they are." He pauses, thoughtful. "Oh, and apparently Engarde's a cumdumpster. And Gavin's bitch. But they've been saying that shit forever." He looks satisfied that he's managed to remember all this, for a moment, at least, anyway. And then then look of  _this is a mess_  comes back onto his face.

"I say we throw the lights," Towne says. "Because they're not going to shut up if we leave them  _on_."

We nod amongst ourselves and Towne steps out to turn off the lights.

"I have  _never_  seen them like this," Lily says. "It  _almost_  makes me feel sorry for a few of them." She sounds worried. "And... Engarde  _and_  Gavin have both been attacked today..."

Towne comes back in, puffing, as though he ran all the way. "They're pissed off about the lights," he says, "but at least they're yelling about  _that_  now, not killing one another."

"Or fucking Matt Engarde," Hamm says, rolling his eyes.

"What's with that?" I ask. "I wasn't aware people had such a problem with him."

I'm feigning naivete to see what I can get. It's manipulative, and I get annoyed when floor staff try to get me to give out information, but my information is confidential, and theirs' isn't.

"You're joking, right?" Lily sips her coffee again. "And since the fight between Gant's group and Gavin, where his glasses got broken, they've been out for Engarde's blood."

"They're just doing it to piss off Gavin because they know he won't react. Because if he  _does_ , it might mean that he's a fag who has a boyfriend in here, and then they can  _really_  fuck his shit up, can't they?" He sounds so self-assured.

"I think Gavin would laugh as hard as the rest of them," Hamm says casually. "He doesn't give a flying fuck about anyone." There's disgust in his voice; like me he  _said_  nothing about the claims that Gavin was a pedophile, but I'm wondering if he always found something about him unsettling. 

"I don't know about that." Lily sounds mildly confused. "While Gavin tends to pretend he can't hear the cumdumpster comments, he seems strangely attached to Engarde. I ...don't  _know_."

No one says much beyond that; in the early days, Gavin and Engarde were the staffroom gossip, they're now just another fact of life here. 

We sit and watch the barely audible TV for a minute. All is quiet. All is calm. 

All of us are exhausted.

 

"Who's doing obs til night shift get in?" Lily asks. 

"I will once I've finished this, I guess." Field indicates his cup of tea. "They seem to have quietened down, anyway," he says. He leans across and flicks the door open. Slight echoes of yells can be heard around the unit and down the corridor, but it's nothing like it was before.

"Maybe they're dropping off." Towne shrugs, checking the flashlight on his belt, switching it on and off. "I don't mind doing 'em if you like-- finish that and I'll do the next lot, hey?" He looks up at the clock on the wall and then at Lily. "If you stay past nine-thirty, deNong'll  _really_  hate you," he tells her with a smile. She gives him a  _look_  and slurps her coffee. "I'm just having one for the road so I'm still awake when I get  _home_ ," she says. "I've nearly fallen asleep driving home, you know-- that's not  _good_."

"You've gotta stop the overtime," Hamm says.

"I guess I've also gotta stop my ex-husband dragging me into court and my lawyer charging like a wounded bull." She doesn't sound impressed, and the cutting look on her face makes Hamm realise he's pushed too far.

"Lawyers, shmwayers," he says. "Go ask Gavin for some legal advice. He likes you." 

She rolls her eyes but smiles anyway. "Shut  _up_ , Mitch."

Towne flicks his flashlight again and stands up, grabbing the clipboard Field left on the table when he walked in. "Obs time," he says with faux enthusiasm, and then turns to Lily. "Get some  _sleep_."

"If I'm not having nightmares about my ex-husband or Gavin now." There's a bit of a giggle amongst us and I drain my glass. Field, Hamm and I are left in the staffroom when Lily and Towne step out. 

"So what do you make of him?" Hamm asks me.

Not more talking about  _Gavin_. Please.

"Who?" I ask.

"Behr-- the new guy."

I don't answer immediately, and I can tell that this interests Hamm for some reason. "I... I thought up until this afternoon that he really wasn't going to be a problem," I tell him. "He seemed polite when I saw him-- no swearing, nothing like that-- he wouldn't even tell me what they were calling Engarde on the unit."

"What a gentleman." Hamm's sarcastic.

"What do  _you_  make of him?"

"I think he's a dark horse," Hamm says. "I've seen guys like him come in here and everyone loves them and they keep to themselves, and then they  _snap_ , and the next thing you know, the whole place has been played for fucking stupid." He stops. "Pardon my French."

"I've heard worse," I tell him with a smile. "And... he doesn't seem to be the  _I, Claudius_  type... he didn't strike me as that sort to begin with, anyway-- he doesn't really have the base."

"Gavin didn't, either, though, and look what he's doing now." He gets up and takes his mug to the sink, rinsing it out under the tap. 

"Gavin isn't controlling  _shit_ ," Field says in a drawl. "He just likes to think he is."

"So you think White just died coincidentally?"

"White killed himself," Field says. "I'm sure if I acted all  _mysterious_  and smug and smiled like a sweet psychotic little child off  _Village of the Damned_ , I could give the impression that I was mind controlling other people around here or something, but that's a lot of frogshit." He looks me in the eye, serious. "The  _real_  problem here is..." He blinks, and his voice lowers. "I think there are people who  _want_  everything to be explained by Kristoph Gavin a  _bit much_ , if you get my gist."

"Towne?" Hamm asks. "Waverley?"

"I'm not saying  _shit_ , but I know it's not just me." He looks nervous, but as though he's cleared some great almighty truth from his chest. Curious as I may be, I don't want to get into a staff shitflinging match. I've seen too much discord for one day.

I stand up. "Perhaps I should head off... It's getting late, and I could probably use the sleep."

I stretch, grabbing my cup and rinsing it under the tap. "Have a good night, all," I tell them, ready to step out into the darkened corridor and head to my car. "Hope they stay as good as they've been."

I open the door, ready to step out. 

When the blee-blee-blee of the duress alarm sounds, Field and Hamm both burst out laughing.

 

It's too well-timed, like I've set off an alarmed door by opening it.

I groan involuntarily, wanting to swear at Towne for being an idiot and setting off an alarm, and the nervousness that comes with hearing something as unnatural as a duress alarm in the middle of the night. I know it's not a joke, but I kind of want it to be one. Today's been messy and awful enough: theoretically, there's nothing any of these men could do to one another in their own cells.

The three of us run down the corridor; other inmates have heard the duress and are banging on their doors, yelling at the staff to make it shut the fuck up, yelling out to one another to ask what's happening.

I can't say I'm either surprised or pleased to see that there's light coming from Gavin and Engarde's cell.

  
Field dashes off, presumably to switch off the duress alarm, and it's then when I take in the situation in front of me. 

Engarde is lying on his side, on the bottom mattress of their bunk bed; Towne's sitting over him, trying not to look frantic and failing. I can't see him clearly from where I am, Towne and shadow are obscuring my view-- but I can see that he looks very still, and his clothing is pulled away at odd angles, revealing angry pink scratches up what I can see of his back. 

Gavin is standing in his pyjamas, with his back to the far wall and his hands in front of him-- typical protocol for when there is a worker in one's cell. He's silent and he looks terrified, his eyes on Engarde the whole time as Towne's gloved hand moves towards his mouth.

"I can assure you, I removed it," he says in monotone and disbelief, "There was only  _one_  piece and it's right near your feet." 

There's a wad of something on the floor, the same colour as the torn sheet on the bed, only it’s moist and darkened with saliva. Or parts of it are. It looks like it could be a Kleenex, used and discarded.

He doesn't sound as confident as usual, and the way his gaze is focussed on Engarde is haunting. "If I were  _able_  to," he says, "I would be radio-ing the hospital  _again_ , Towne. You have less than three minutes before he's a vegetable."

He doesn't sound mildly amused; he sounds simultaneously terrifying and terrified, as though he’ll personally hold Towne accountable should Engarde lose brain function.

He hasn't even noticed me standing there, or the duress alarm stopping. And his voice is clipped and angry, but he's unable to hide the unusual shudder in it.

"Shut up, Gavin," Towne snaps, and strangely enough, he does. I see a hand push down on something on his back.

"He needs  _medical attention_ ," snarls Gavin. "Not someone who's had two hours training in first aid during an induction session--"

"Don't tell me what to do," snaps Towne; "This was  _your_  fault."

None of us seemed to hear the clatter of footsteps and the wheels of a trolley rushing down the hallway, but as the hospital staff run towards the cell, we scatter. 

One of the hospital staff rushes to Towne, who stands up, the other two tend to Engarde. 

"There's a pulse," I hear someone say. "It's just  _very_  weak-- this guy doesn't have heart problems does he?"

"Not that I'm aware of, but he's allergic to penicillin and he has low blood pressure a lot of the time, which might be caused by what medication he's on."

No one, it seems, has paid much attention to Gavin until he says that, and the rest of us look up at him as though we've just remembered he's standing there.

"Is he on anything at the moment?" one of the workers asks.

"Not to my knowledge," Gavin says with a cold, determined sort of authority, "But his psychiatrist is out there and might have his records." 

It's then that I've realised that he  _has_  seen us, but his concern wasn't for our arrival but for Engarde. He still manages to avoid looking at us.

  


 

"Did he just reel off Engarde's medical history?" Hamm asks quietly.

  
I'm silent and I nod. I can't reveal anything; it would be unprofessional. "How the fuck did he know all that?"

I shrug. Towne, who's stepped out behind us is watching in horror, and he nudges Hamm who is closest to him. "The moment those medical staff get Engarde out, we drop Gavin to the floor and get him in iso," he says quietly. "And we have him  _searched_  because something's up with him-- I don't trust him one bit after this."

 

I want to say something. My mouth opens and then shuts, but I can't find the words at the moment. My eyes move to Gavin, who is still standing by the wall, watching desperately as the staff tend to Engarde.

"What  _happened_?" Hamm asks.

"What they usually get up to, I suspect." Towne doesn't sound pleased. "Engarde seems to have fainted or something and he's bleeding quiet badly--" he looks into the room at Gavin. " _Someone_ ," he says in a sickened voice, "has torn the stitches out of his face that he had put in this afternoon."

None of us know what to say to  _that_ , and we're interrupted by the clatter of a trolley as the staff push Engarde out of the room. The moment they're gone, Towne throws his weight against the door, slamming it shut even though there appears to be no need. Gavin is still standing against the far wall, looking completely traumatised. 

Towne locks the door and Gavin doesn't even flinch.

"I need to ring on-call-- it's Parke tonight and he's gonna  _love_  this-- regarding getting  _him_  moved to iso and getting a medical report done for Engarde as well as additional staff up there," he says. The panic's left his voice and the authority of management has taken over. "And if I find out that Engarde's injuries weren't self-inflicted, he can damn well stay in solitary until he  _rots_."

I feel sorry for Towne; honestly-- it seems that he gets the rough evening shifts after the horrible days, and that he's had more than his share of Gavin-related oddnesses. I can understand his rage. But it isn't fair and it annoys me.

"Do you need me to do anything?" I ask.

Towne sighs. "It's probably too late to talk to one, and the other's out cold, so other than the incident report... no..." He looks horrified when the paperwork occurs to him. "We didn't even get the report drafted about what happened this afternoon with Gavin and Behr."

I give him a nod as he steps away to his office.

All this has happened in less than twenty minutes, and the time frame is surreal. In such a short space of time, the players in this strange little situation have changed again. 

I don't know what to think about Gavin; he's pacing in the room now, and he looks up at the light emanating from the ceiling, his eyes looking so much smaller without his glasses, his hair still a mess. He looks as though he should be crying beneath the grim, determined look on his face, he looks worried and frantic, as though his pacing like a wild animal will burn away the panic. 

I watch him, silent. Why the hell did he do it? Why now? He'd implied that he was still  _doing things_  with Engarde but evading detection-- so why make the behaviour risky  _now_? Was getting into isolation  _that_ important to him? 

Apparently so, and reconsidering Towne's rotten mood, I'm sure that he understands, too. Essentially, we've been manipulated, played, again, we've been backed into a corner where the only reasonable thing they can do  _is_  send Gavin to isolation-- and--

"What the hell did Engarde see in him?" Field asks. "The guy's an animal."

"The guy's  _tricky_ ," I murmur. "He got what he wanted, didn't he?"

"I thought he wanted to do as many depraved things as he could get away with to his cellmate," Field says. "So how's nearly  _killing him_  helping his cause?"

"He wanted to go to isolation," I say slowly. "But he couldn't because that would be leaving Engarde by himself and vulnerable to the unit--"

"So he put him in the hospital instead," Hamm finishes my sentence with. 

"That's really fucked." Field shakes his head. "That's like-- remember that cannibal guy we had here who said he loved his victims? And  _he_  quite sincerely believed that, too..."

"I think you're right, though." Hamm looks at me uncomfortably. "I've never seen Gavin do anything this rash before without a good reason-- and he knew how long Wellington stayed in the hospital when he hurt  _him_..." He pauses. "But  _God_ , that's fucked up."

I look through the window in the door and see him pacing again, still frantic. And then it occurs to me that at this point in time, Kristoph Gavin doesn't know if he'll ever see Matt Engarde ever again.

And my theory of him changes once more.


	14. Recovery

There's a message from Liz on the answering machine when I get back home, but it's too late, and I'm too tired-- and too stunned by the night's events-- to call her back.

" _Nothing's wrong with Anna-- or me_ "-- she'd told me, a typical Liz reassurance so that I wouldn't worry, and one which I appreciated. Upon replay, she sounded slightly nervous and uncomfortable, but I suppose since we haven't spoken in awhile, that's understandable.

I often wonder if things would have been easier if we'd parted on classically awful terms, where we'd dragged out the whole process with lengthy court battles and communications via lawyers and arguments over who got to keep the glassware and Anna's baby photographs. Because the quasi-friendship makes things feel unfinished sometimes.

  
I try not to dwell on it too much; I'll call back later, when I'm in the mood for talking to other people. Strangely enough, the idea of talking to Lauryn feels just as heavy right now; I want to avoid people, even if it means that I'm alone with my thoughts and what I've seen today.

I'm not sure what's stranger-- the way the tension in the prison has ballooned into something thick and evil so quickly-- when it's the usual gang wars and in-fighting, it tends to be blatant and obvious. There's some sniping, there's a fight, everyone calms down until the next fight erupts. This is different; there is calculated strategy and there are none of the usual factors; no revenge carrying over from outside happenings in previous lives, no drugs, no concerns about someone being a rat-- it's all so senseless, in a way; senseless and threatening. 

And I wonder how  _over_  it really is.

  
When I wake in the morning, it's because I've had another scrambled nightmare; Gavin's been told that Engarde is dead and is tearing chunks out of the walls with his teeth. At least I haven't woken much earlier than the alarm, though the persistence of the nightmares bothers me. 

I'm not looking forward to going to work this morning. I know it's going to be a busy, messy day, and that I'm likely going to be dealing with some of the players in yesterday's dramas.

My email tells me there's an emergency staff meeting before breakfast, which makes perfect sense given what happened last night; I'm wondering what sorts of protocols they'll be introducing  _now_.

 

* * *

When I arrive, it's full as usual, and I make myself a coffee while Parke is already in full swing, discussing what happened last night.

"So Gavin's still in isolation?" Denham asks. "What about Engarde?"

"Gant was saying he's  _downstairs_." Everyone stops to look at Waverley. "That that sick son-of-a-bitch  _killed_  him."

"Engarde's in the hospital wing," Parke says with gritted teeth. "And I'll thank you-- and the rest of you-- to nip any rumours like that in the bud.' He sighs. "The last thing we need is retribution from anyone."

"It's not like anyone can harm Gavin."

"No, not  _right now_ ," Parke says, "But when he gets back-- who knows?"

 

"When  _is_  he coming back?" Tona pipes up from somewhere behind me. "I mean..."

"I agree with you," Waverley snarls. "He needs to be heavily medicated or kept in solitary. Lock the door and throw away the key."

"I didn't mean--"

"Why weren't you arguing the same thing about Gant after White's death?" Lily hisses. "Good for the goose, good for the  _Gant_ , right?" 

"Gant didn't kill White," Waverley snaps, his voice rising. 

"That's what you--"

"It was probably your limp-wristed pal in iso--"

"Got some  _proof_?"

" _Right_." Parke's voice is a furious snarl. "We can speculate all we want, but we can do that on our own time-- Dale, Waverley-- I'll see you in my office after this." He doesn't sound pleased with either of them. "Management haven't finalised a plan for Gavin since no one's spoken to him yet."

The room isn't quite silent; there are too many of us in here. But no one's saying anything. 

"What I  _am_  asking, is that all of you  _listen_ \-- we're on lockdown now and we're going to have the whole unit asking  _why_. It's our job to make sure we don't make this any worse than it has to be, that we don't feed in to the animousity on the unit. We haven't just had issues with Gavin and Engarde-- Behr, Crescend and Wellington have been involved in incidents as well, and we need to get to the bottom of  _them_  and get that stuff under control as well." He casts a look in my direction. "Crescend wants to talk to you," he tells me.

 _Wonderful_. I suppose him wanting to is better than a pissed off, dragged in to see me Crescend, but nonetheless, he's not what I'd call a pleasant character or an easy to deal with client. I nod to Parke and he continues. 

"We're going to use this opportunity to reshuffle the rooms, too: Gavin and Engarde can't share a cell after this, so for the time being, Behr's going in there with Banks." He looks around, as though waiting for protest. "Moreau and Gant can have singles for awhile, unless we get anyone else on the unit-- we might need to shuffle things around a bit more..." He trails off. "I need someone to gut Gavin and Engarde's room-- and do it  _thoroughly_ \-- write up a room search afterwards, because Christ knows what they've been doing in there."

"Wear gloves," someone says behind me, and Parke grimaces. 

"The next thing we need to talk about is that after our renovations-- I guess the department got their connections to refurb solitary on the cheap or something-- we've had a few technical issues around the unit." No one seems to know what he's talking about. "Plan pointed out that there's a fusebox that doesn't close properly in that that corridor where everyone smokes-- and we've had a few electrical issues in the offices," he continues. "Basically, I just need all of you to be on the lookout and prepared to email me with any concerns-- the more we get, the more of a case we have for getting them properly investigated and tended to, rather than just patched up here and there as we all know they like doing."

"When are the sprinklers getting replaced?" Denham asks. 

"Tentative date is about two months down the track," Parke says. "Though to be honest, it's not really that much of a priority: it's not like we've had a sprinkler pulled on this unit for months."

"We have nothing, then... when it rains, it  _pours_." Caster sounds unimpressed. "One smartass does it, the next thing, it's like we're all singin' in the rain."

Parke's nose wrinkles. "Actually, since we've allowed more personal affects in the cells, we haven't had as much of a problem with the sprinklers," he points out. "No one wants to be the punk who got Johnny Big Man's photos of his wife and kids destroyed." 

Caster nods. "I just remember about three years ago..."

"They seem to have lost interest," Parke says. "I know it's a problem more in some units than others, but we've never really had much of an issue with the sprinklers-- far as I'm concerned, we need to get the pool back to operational again."

 

The pool. Currently a hole in the ground and off-limits to everyone because it was deemed unsafe and in need of repairs. Years of bulk-bought, industrial-grade chemicals and poor maintenance not to mention the regular wear and tear of one pool being used by hundreds of adults, and it's understandable when the cement starts coming loose and tiles-- the perfect, concealable, non-metal-detected weapons-- come loose.

"When's  _that_  going to happen?"

"When Damon Gant wins the lottery?" Parke asks with a silly smile on his face-- "I don't know, to be honest. But there are plans in progress to get some cash for the pool-- the swimming program worked well last time, so I'm hoping to get it set up sometime this year."

There's a collective murmur amongst everyone-- "So--  _right_ ," Parke says again, "We're on a tight leash today, folks: if someone so much as  _eyeballs_  someone else today, they're going into iso. Behr and Crescend and Gavin and Wellington are on obs, we've got two casuals up at the hospital, and they're going to need to be relieved for some of that time-- and we've got a room that needs gutting. And... let's hope we've gotten rid of Armando, hey?"

There's another murmur at the idea of Armando leaving, a few commiserations at not getting to say goodbye to him. Parke ignores all this, and the meeting is unofficially over as people start standing up and taking their cups to the sink. Lily and Waverley get a gesture made to them; Parke hasn't forgotten about wanting to see them afterwards.

And I head back to my office, ready to deal with my clients.

 

 

 

Crescend looks surly and determined when he slinks into my office. His formerly phallic-shaped hairstyle now hangs limply around his bony shoulders, long and messy and untameable, pretty much like the man himself. 

"Hello Mr. Crescend." 

There's a strand of hair in his eyes which he brushes out of the way. 

"Yeah-- hey, doc." He's slightly more agreeable that he usually seems, and he lounges back in the chair easily, blue eyes focussed on mine. "I guess I need to talk to you about some shit," he says.

I nod slightly, not saying anything initially. He's a man of few words, it seems; fewer of those words seem to be of the non-offensive variety, too.

"What would you like to discuss?" I ask him gently. I pause. "I heard you were involved in an altercation yesterday."

"I'm getting pissed off with this place," he admits. "I dunno if I'm going crazy or getting depressed or something, but it's fucken  _crap_." He sniffs, tilting his head to the side. "I don't trust anyone here; Gant's got his boys cozying up to me like I'm celebrity of the week. Two years ago, he didn't want anything to do with me, now I'm getting nearly as much head as when I was famous." He smirks at me, something of the rockstar persona resurfacing. In the back of my mind I'm grateful that Anna hasn't asked me about him. Because how do you tell your little girl about what he's  _really_  like?

"That's..." I don't know what to say to that, either.

"Probably a bit tee-em-eye?" He blinks. "Sorry-- I'm just sayin'-- it's fucken  _weird_."

"Do you have any idea  _why_  the sudden interest in your  _friendship_?"

He snorts. "Hell if I know," he says, crossing one leg over the other so his foot's resting on his knee. "I'm guessing that Plan and Wellington want more from me than my cock in their mouth, though, yanno?" He blinks. "I think it's something over this thing they've got going with Gavin."

"Why do you think they'd want you involved in that?"

"Because I know Gavin and to know that motherfucker is to despise him," he says nastily. "And I've known him for  _years_." His voice is a growl and I get a flash of sharp white teeth from him. "And I know what Gant's like-- he won't wanna get his paws dirty with Gavin-- there's too many people keeping an eye on him right now." 

He seems remarkably well-aware of what's happening around the unit. And smart enough to not fall for it.

I nod, offering a  _mmm_  of agreement.

"I know everyone thinks I'm an idiot," he says, still sounding disgusted. "But--  _hey_. I was a detective out there. I'm not  _stupid_." He sniffs again. "Not like some of these dumb fucks." He practically spits the words out, and I've noticed, his hands move animatedly with his speech. Is  _this_  Crescend in his usual state?

"You can take away the badge, but you can't take away the mindset, doc." He blinks at me. "It's probably like you, isn't it? You could, you know, stop working here, and you'd still be out and about doing your thing and you'd still be psychoanalysing people or whatever the hell you do, right?"

"I suppose so," I agree. "But... what happened with you and Wellington yesterday?"

"He just fucked me off. He's an annoying little twerp; like someone's asshole kid brother, sucking up to Gant like the old man actually likes him-- and I was  _pissed_..." His voice drops, and he looks noticeably bothered.

"I got a phonecall today."

I nod. 

"Someone told my mother that Klavier's in the fucken psych unit after what happened to him..." He looks bothered. "I've heard things round here, but I'm willing to bet that psychotic son-of-a-bitch set that up like he did with me and the Kitakis."

That's when I freeze. "What makes you say that?"

"Because of who they are: they don't take nicely to hearing shit talked about them and whatever they're doing, so no one does. And word gets leaked out  _somehow_  to 'em that I'm a rat-- and they're professionals-- you know what they're like, business is business-- and they react to insults quickly and efficiently. There's no beating about the bush with them, they want you beaten to a shit-pulp, you get everything but your last breath knocked outta ya. _Capiche_?"

 

I don't bother to point out that the Kitakis are the  _Japanese_  kind of mafia. Crescend's adapted well to prison lingo and spent some time over on E-wing; he could have picked up the odd piece of Mafia slang from there.

"So you think Gavin was responsible?" I ask. "Doesn't that make you want revenge?"

"Nope," he says, shaking his head emphatically. "Last thing I need is to incur  _his_  wrath. I mean, I know he was pissed about what happened with--" He cuts himself off there. "Maybe that's why Gant took an interest in me and I had his boys hanging around like two-cent sluts-- because I actually had some  _dirt_  on Gavin." He looks unimpressed. "He probably thinks I have more, but I don't, really-- I mean, he was fucking around with Klavier since he was  _little_ , doc-- isn't  _that_  enough?"

"And... you were friends with Klavier, weren't you?"

He looks as though someone's punched him in the face. "Yeah," he admits. "I mean, I'm fucked off with him right now but he was a little kid, you know?" He pauses. "Kristoph's hated me since I told him it wasn't normal-- he must have known that I said that through Klavier." He pauses, and looks back at me with a disgusted expression. "I don't have brothers or anything, but I remember being fifteen and staying over at their house, and it was just...  _really creepy_. And Gavin-- Kristoph-- would  _laugh_  about it with Klavier-- and I remember pulling him-- Klavier-- aside at one point and going, 'Dude; that shit isn't right.'" He stops himself again. "And now-- yeah, we might hate one another in a way, but still, I don't think he deserved that shit, or to be in a fucking psych hospital, and I still think Gavin's responsible for the whole lot of it."

He looks deathly serious then, and worried.

"I'm not after revenge or nothing, doc-- I wanna stay the fuck out of this one." A nasty glimmer comes onto his face for a second. "Of course, I'm hardly gonna be crying into my pillow if someone fucks up Engarde's shit like they did the other day."

"Engarde?" I ask.

"Yeah. Cumdumpster." He says it so casually and there's a nasty bite to his laugh. "He's a whiny little fucker anyway, but Gavin seems creepily attached to him, like he was with Klavier. Like he's his  _property_  or something. I've  _seen_  Gavin like that before; it's fucken disgusting."

I think back to Gavin being so offended that Engarde had "convinced" one of the workers on his behalf to move forward his appointment with the optometrist. Was he bothered that Engarde did that, or was he bothered that something that "belonged" to  _him_  had been  _used_  by someone else? And if that was the case, why didn't the rest of Engarde's sexual history bother him?

"Mr. Crescend," I say gently. "We haven't really talked about your behaviour."

He nods, compliant and placid for once. "Oh, yeah," he says seriously. "Maybe you could give me some of those antidepressants or something?"

There's not a black market in the prison for antidepressants. Everyone knows they look different to the tranquilisers, and rather than getting anyone high, in the first few days of using them, they have awful side effects in a lot of cases. They aren't recreational.

"Why do you want antidepressants?"

"Because I've been, I dunno, depressed and shit. I fucken hate this place. It drags you down. You can't sleep properly. You feel like you'd pull a White if you could find the energy-- it  _sucks_ , man."

"Have you tried the meditation groups they run in recreational time?"

He looks at me as though I've suggested licking toads.

"Fuck that shit," he says. "Meditation is for Buddhists and stuff. Medi _cation_  is for  _me_." The idea of a pissed off Crescend disrupting the pleasant and friendly atmosphere of the meditation workshops makes me agree with him, and decide that if he's bothered to tell me this much about his depression, antidepressants might not be such a bad idea. Anything that improves his mood sounds like it's worth a try, especially if he's asking for it.

 

By the end of the hour, I've learned a few more things about the unit dynamics, more than I'd want to about the Gavin household of ten years ago, and that behind Crescend's attitude, there is an extremely angry human being who has difficulty admitting to any other emotions.

He gets a prescription for the antidepressants, and a follow-up appointment.

 _I hope it helps him_ , I think as Denham escorts him out.

 

 

 

"Is he allowed to have a chair in there?" I ask Parke as I peer in through the isolation room slot.

"Nope."

 

"Am  _I_  allowed to have a chair in there?" 

Parke shakes his head. I shouldn't have expected any special treatment.

  
It's rare for me to  _visit_  inmates in the isolation cell, but Gavin's case is unique, in a couple of ways, I've been informed.

For one thing-- I have an established relationship with him, and according to Parke who might have just been sugar-coating, my patience and commitment to him is extraordinary.  _Committed_. They say the same thing when someone's been sent to a psychiatric facility without their say-so, and every so often I think of that joke about how you "don't have to be crazy to work here, but it helps." I think of how the most brutal and thoughtless workers are often the ones who have the least empathy for the inmates; they don't view them as being the same  _species_  as them.

Maybe I'm not  _good_ , I'm just a particular variety of crazy.

Or maybe, I think, as I knock on the door-- a common courtesy warning-- and Parke unlocks it-- I'm just stuck dealing with the stuff no one else wants to.

  
His face lights up when he sees me; he's sitting cross-legged in the corner, and when the door shuts behind us, I'm overwhelmed by the strangeness of being in an isolation cell. These cells are new; they were repainted not long ago: they're four walls and a ceiling of easily-wipeable off-white and a fibreglass slot cut into the door. A shower-like drain is in the middle of the floor where the ground slopes into it.

I crouch to sit down as Gavin is, to be on his level at least.

"Mind you don't sit too close to the drain," he says lazily. "As you can probably imagine, they don't cater for waste management very well in here."

He's not smiling, and it's then that I'm struck with the indignity of the situation he's in. When he came into prison, he was a man who meticulously cleaned and polished his fingernails. A couple of years in, and he's pissing into a hole in the floor.

I shift away to the side and he nods. "I don't remember the isolation cells being this repellent," he says, wrinkling his nose slightly, legs out in front of him, back pressed to the walls of the corner he's up against, "But I suppose I wasn't in one for very long last time before they moved me to solitary." He gives me a strange sort of  _thoughtful_  look. "I've seen  _three_  incarnations of the solitary confinement wing since being here," he tells me. "Or at least, I will have after my next admission."

I don't say anything. I just look at him.

"Apparently I can no longer utilise the facilities there in order to kill myself." He sounds so breezy and unbothered, and I wonder if he really is, or if it's just his way of dealing with otherwise overwhelming stress. 

"Mr. Gavin," I tell him quietly, "We both know why I'm here."

That's when he goes quiet, and looks up at me carefully; his blue eyes glisten for a moment with something desperate behind them, as though he wants answers of his own. He doesn't say anything.

"We need to discuss what happened on the night you were brought in here."

He sniffs and turns his head to the side. "You  _saw_  what happened," he tells me calmly. "I think we all know why I was brought in here."

"Parke tells me you went without protest." He did, apparently; when the door was opened, he stepped back casually, and he walked, docile as a drugged kitten. He didn't protest when he was strip searched. He didn't bang on the door afterwards. According to his observation sheets, he dressed when his clothes were returned, and he paced for a little while. 

"I did."

The unspoken question is, of course,  _why?_  But he still doesn't say anything; he's a paradox today, he seems desperate to interact with  _someone_ \-- and he usually  _will_  interact with me-- but as though he's holding back. There's a thick deadness to his voice which makes him sound solid and yet defeated.

I watch his face carefully.

"What do you want?" I ask him.

He blinks, stretching his hands in front of him, his fingers laced together. "I was told this morning that I killed Engarde," he says. "That he died overnight in the hospital wing."

 

And that's when I understand the tone of voice. Rather than not looking me in the eye, caught off-guard by emotion or guilt or  _something_ , he's looking at me, clear and steady-- or as clear and steady as he can manage without glasses-- as though he's rehearsed saying it aloud so he's prepared for speaking those words to another human being.

"Who told you that?" I ask him. I feel like I'm skating on thin ice, and I wonder if the staff could have any motivation for lying to him, especially since Parke said he wanted the inmates to know the truth about what happened. 

The expression on his face changes slightly, and he exhales, looking at me, stoic and hardened. Has  _Engarde_  been turned into a mind game now, something to struggle with him over?

"If that  _is_  the case," he says carefully, "I would like to make two inquiries-- the first being 'May I have Special Access Leave paperwork to submit so I can attend his funeral?' and the second being--" and that's when I see the tiny little speck, spit flying out from his mouth, furious and animalistic and undignified-- "How the  _hell_  did Damon Gant find out this information and why wasn't I told by a staff member?" I watch his hands clench into fists, and, even though I'm squatting, sitting up on the balls of my feet-- I could be to a standing position easily enough and I know Hamm is just outside the door-- I'm terrified. 

Gavin is a ball of rage; energy and anger rips around inside him; I can see the way his muscles tense up in his arms and his neck, am watching his cheeks turn to rock.

I'm imagining him grabbing Richard Wellington by his skinny neck, aiming furious, direct blows into his face. I'm imagining him effortlessly smashing him into a wall, realising he's got blood on his hands, and idly pressing them onto the paintwork, smiling to himself.

"Matt Engarde isn't dead," I tell him, and the shift, the change comes-- he's surprised. I feel like I've thrown a piece of meat near an attack dog and distracted it; he relaxes, the muscles unclench and his shoulders lower. 

"Were you hoping he  _was_?"

He glares at me then. "Honestly, doctor," he sniffs. "What do  _you_  think?"

I'm playing one of his games, and the stakes feel high. I've got two possible choices, one is the right one, and the other  _isn't_.

And one might be the  _correct_  answer, I realise, but the one he doesn't want to admit to.

But he trusts me. Engarde trusts me. 

If I offend him, I'm not getting anything out of him. If I know him too well and that cuts too deep, it might anger him. If I have underestimated him, been fooled by him, bought into a false love story he's concocted to blindside everyone-- he's never going to respect me again.

I'm silent, and I can practically hear a clock ticking behind me. Gavin leans back a little, a smile forming across his lips, a slight twitch of a thing. 

If I lose his respect, I might never have to see him again. I might lose the nightmares, too.

I remember Engarde and Gavin, sitting at the table in the common area, playing cards and calling out amiably to me.

I remember Gavin's detailled disgust as he told me about the prison's apathy to Engarde being gang raped.

I remember first-year social psychology, learning about Asch's conformity experiments, where group influence caused individuals to give incorrect answers to basic questions in order to go along with what was "right." Their responses weren't determined by their own intellect but by the desire to go along with the others.

I always said I'd never do that.

Gavin peers at me, and I can imagine him pushing those glasses back up his nose if he still had them, a chess player trying to psych me out.

I remember the time I walked past their shared cell, and they were casually draped over one another, relaxed with each others' presence, and Gavin was reading aloud to Engarde. Even though it was  _The Art of War_.

I'm waiting for the rage and disbelief when I reply, and my hand drifts to the duress alarm on my belt.

"No," I tell him quietly, "I don't think you want Engarde to be dead."

 

 _That's_  when he turns for a moment, and I feel intrusive looking at him.

"You're right," he says softly. And then he pauses, head tilted up slightly. "I suppose you can imagine why I did what I did then."

I nod. "Because you knew it would get the two of you off the unit."

"I'm sure I could have managed that in another way," he says coolly, "But since Waverley was working that day, there were risks we knew we couldn't take."

"You seemed shocked about hearing that you killed him," I can't help but mention. "As though you might have believed it for a second."

 

"Do you know what shocked me about that?" he asks. His voice is serene now, his moment of concern is over. He knows Engarde is alive, he's  _relieved._  And close to unconcerned about the damage he may have caused him, I'm assuming.

"No," I reply. "I genuinely assumed you were worried that he was dead."

"I was more troubled by the idea that somewhere, my assessment of the situation, my  _calculations_ \-- were incorrect." He pauses. "I know Engarde is a bleeder." There's a slight, reminiscent smile on his face there. I don't want to know. "I know he's been advised he has low blood pressure, which is probably at least in part due to the fact that he finds most of the food here unpalatable and he doesn't eat much. And I know that the antidepressants he's been on only exacerbate his condition, and that he can feel faint on occasion." He looks at me seriously then. "I know how his body works, doctor," he says huskily, "And I suspected that at the very worst, he'd suffer significant blood loss but I was  _hoping_  for him to merely pass out and to bleed enough to scare the staff into removing him from the unit."

"That's a big gamble," I say quietly. "What if you  _had_  killed him?"

"If I wished to kill him, I'd have done so by now-- and anyway-- I'd merely answer to another murder charge, I'd have a strong case for manslaughter anyway, and I'd have another forty years added to a life sentence with no possibility of parole," he says coldly. 

It's not just about that, though, and he's avoided what I'm really asking him.

"How would you have  _felt_?"

"I would have been disappointed in myself," he tells me. "Because I appreciate Engarde's company, and I realise that..." His voice is sing-song and lyrical, I feel like he's playing with me.

"No," I cut him off with-- "How would you  _have felt_?" My voice is growing louder with irritation. "About  _him_?"

He goes silent. A squirming, uncomfortable sort of silent. "I've been fortunate," he says airily, flipping a messy strand of hair out of his face. "I've never known the pain of permanent loss when it's come to someone I've significantly cared about."

"What about Justice?" My response is an instant knee jerk. "You told me you cared about  _him_." 

I think of the short little man with the antennae hairstyle talking to Grant the desk jockey. 

"He's apparently coming in to visit me next week," he says.

A surprise for a surprise, I suppose. I was  _not_  expecting that one. A part of me wants to ring Lauryn and ask her if he's insane-- in the most non-clinical sense ever-- for voluntarily walking into this snake pit. I wonder what she said to him. And I wonder  _why_  he's decided to visit.

"You look surprised, doctor." He pauses. "Do you know Justice?"

"From the papers," I say quickly, but there's a chance he's seen a flash of hesitation and too much curiosity in my face. "How do you feel about  _that_?"

"I'll be looking forward to it," he says. "I haven't seen young Justice in a while, and I trust that he's turned into a good little lawyer by now." He smiles. I don't trust the smile. "I wonder, more importantly, how _he_  is feeling about  _me_."

I don't know. I don't know why Gavin seems to be asking me, either.

 

"My point is," he continues, "I never lost Justice permanently. Granted, I was betrayed by him, I'd set him up with the perfect career starter as I realised Phoenix Wright had." He looks thoughtful for a moment then. "While I realise Wright betrayed me, I also knew that I partially expected him to. Setting him up with Justice made him nervous, but Wright insisted on the rookie-- I always felt that as long as Justice was on my side, Wright would have gone to prison in my place-- possibly gone to the death chamber since he was relatively disliked after the whole evidence forging mess." He looks thoughtful again. "I wonder what box he would have checked on the list-- _Hanging_?  _Electrocution_?  _Poison_?" His nose wrinkles slightly. "My suspicion is that he'd opt for the gallows-- electrocution would require his head to be shaved, and he always hated needles." 

I'm feeling that same queasiness I felt when he first talked about capital punishment options. It's strange; a year ago, I was calmly helping men adjust to the fact that they would have to make that choice. I was trying to facilitate last meetings with family members. Back then, it was part of my job description, part of life, and now the very thought of it makes me feel ill. 

"Maybe we shouldn't discuss the  _what ifs_ ," I say gently, hoping to steer the conversation elsewhere.

" _Wright_ ," he says with a sigh. "I suppose I spent a significant portion of my life with him." He looks thoughtful; he's controlling the subject matter again, but I can deal with that because for the moment, it's not at all macabre.

"And... do you think about that much?"

He steeples his fingers, and stretches them. There's a crack of bones and he shifts himself. "I suppose I do," he says, "Because here I am reminded of the stark contrast of my situation with Wright, and the situation with Engarde. Back in the free world, everyone saw Wright and I and the vast majority of them-- Apollo Justice being the only exception, likely, given my relations with  _him_ \-- assumed from an outsider perspective that all was well between us. Wright and I never really  _did_ : I cared for him on some strange shallow level." He pauses. "It's difficult to explain," he says slowly-- "Because I  _did_  care for him-- he was beautiful and he was broken and some of that was because of my doing-- and to just have at your fingertips, to know that it's...  _yours_ \-- it inspires a level of sentimentality, I suppose." He smiles slightly.

It's as though he has no concept of how disturbing he sounds. 

"Justice was aware that there were troubles at home," he continues, abandoning Wright-- "Justice is a bright little thing and would have realised as much from when workplace relations became far more interesting and far less conventional," he says with a smirk. "I understand he was only quite young and somewhat naive, but surely he would understand that his boss wasn't especially content at home if he was requesting sexual favours at work." He smiles, easily now, twirling a strand of hair between his fingertips, savouring another memory I hope I'm not going to be privy to.

"Of course, the beauty of the whole thing was that Justice never  _knew_  that I was involved with Wright. Wright only vaguely knew Justice because he'd seen him about the office-- I had my suspicions that _Wright_  knew, because Wright  _was_  suspicious of me-- and I also have my suspicions that that inspired a sense of irritation in Wright, fuelled some sort of childlike jealousy." He's smirking now. "He always used to taunt Justice, as though he was some fearless young buck trying to displace him." There's a chuckle from him. "I found it all extremely amusing."

I can imagine he did. It would have fuelled his narcissism and desire for kinky sex where he held a dominant role, not to mention it would have amused him and given him a form of social entertainment. Manipulating people.

Just like he's been doing in here.

"What does this have to do with your  _situation_  with Engarde?" I ask abruptly. I'm aware of the fact that we're running out of time, and that he's diverged wildly off topic.

 

"I was merely thinking about the vast difference," he continues smoothly. "With Engarde and I, it's the complete opposite to the Wright-and-I situation. Here, everyone else is looking in and they're wondering what the catch is. They're wondering who's abusing whom, they're thinking about abuses of power and codes of silence and what could really be going on behind the scenes. With Wright and I, no one did that."

"So you're arguing that the perceptions of the general population were different."

"Yes," he says testily. "Wright and I did  _not_  trust one another, and it was clearly evident to the both of us."

And I'm pushing him towards an answer. 

He stands up, and begins pacing, stretching his legs after sitting in the one spot for so long. I find myself standing, too; wanting to look him in the eye on his level.

"So how is that different to you and Engarde?" I ask innocently.

I receive a glare from him for my effort. "Engarde and I have a much less contrived and devious relationship," he says tightly. I believe the first part, at least. "It's extremely ironic that when I had Wright for the time that I did, he and Edgeworth had already put Engarde behind bars-- isn't it?" There's a little smile from him. "I was able to do so many things for Wright in my capacity when I was a free man and they made him happy on a superficial level, I suppose, and they alleviated some of the awkwardness I felt about the situation--" he's still pacing, not quite looking at me-- "And I  _did_  feel awkwardness-- and every so often I'd realise how entertaining it was just to watch Wright enjoying himself because of me, even though I knew that part of him never trusted me entirely and could probably never appreciate it."

He still hasn't answered my question. He's dodged it again, and he knows it. 

I get another smile from him, and there's a knock on the door.

Gavin looks worried for a moment; there's a panicked look on his face and he moves towards the left, out of the direct line of vision of the perspex window.

"Are you seeing Engarde any time soon?" he asks me.

I realise how close to him I am at that moment, how flawed his skin really is; he's starting to get the prison complexion and his glorious golden mane seems to be suffering under stress and cheap prison shampoo.

"Possibly," I tell him. The least I can do is be honest about a thing like that. He's been perfectly honest with  _me_  throughout this session.

"Might I ask you to pass on a message, hmmm?"

There's a sweet little smile from him and another knock on the door.

He takes a step towards me, and leans in close. I can smell him, sweat and day-old deodorant and the tang of unbrushed teeth and morning breath on his lips, and for a moment, I'm scared he's going to try and kiss me.

Before I can jump back, I feel two hands on me, their movements firm-- one running lewdly down my thigh as though it's a censored gesture of what he'd prefer to be doing to me-- no, not me, _Engarde_ , I remind myself-- the other pinching, delicately, nails gently biting at the skin almost affectionately, at my cheek, not far beneath my eye.

It's over in less than a heart stopping second.

"Can you pass that on?" he asks sweetly with a smile. "I'm sure he'll appreciate it."

I don't buy into it at all, and I step back. "Mr.  _Gavin_ ," I say sharply, my voice full of warning, "As I'm sure you're aware, touching me in that fashion could permanently end our sessions."

He blinks, eyes big and apologetic, face innocent and harmless. 

"I'm sorry, doctor," he says as the door opens and Hamm looks at him suspiciously. 

I step out as the door's opened. "Goodbye," I can't help but say. "Take care."

He's back in his corner and I see him give me a nod of acknowledgement, a humbled, worried look on his face through the perspex window.

 

When Parke comes into my office, I'm given two pieces of predictable information.

The first is that, yes, Armando has been released on parole. I didn't even get the chance to provide him an exit interview, and to say I'm slightly irritated is an understatement. Armando is a rarity; he's a success story, a happy ending. No, I haven't dealt with him a great deal, but I haven't  _needed to_. He'd been a model prisoner, and he was leaving, not via the conventional means-- the morgue van-- but through his own good behaviour.

"Why is that?" I ask him, annoyed. "Did he even  _get_  an exit interview?"

Parke bites his lip and I get a flicker of a guilty expression from him. "Smeer took care of that."

I raise my eyebrows. " _Smeer_?" I ask. 

I'm tired. I'm aware that I'm not sounding especially friendly, and I'm already waiting for Parke to glare at me in the way he did at Lily and Waverley in the meeting. I'm not expecting an exasperated sigh and kindness.

Parke can be surprising.

"Look," he says, "It wasn't my decision and the whole thing was a mess because someone fucked up Armando's court dates on the computer system. And we had to get him outta here in a timely fashion lest the bastard sue for being held illegally or if something fucked up at  _their_  end and he missed his hearing." He looks worried. "I didn't know you were on such good terms with Armando," he continues. "And Smeer's still kind of green... he's not ready for the shit you deal with."

" _I'm_  not ready for the shit I deal with sometimes," I find myself muttering.

Parke steps back. "Is everything okay with you?" he asks. "I mean..."

That's when I sigh, and for the first time in a long time, I consider that question. 

"It's SNAFU, I guess," I offer with a limp smile. "And it just keeps getting better."

Another raised eyebrow from Parke.

"Gavin  _touched me_  this afternoon." 

I didn't mean it to sound like that, so heavily-laden with drama and so intense and serious, but mentioning it brings the memory of his fingernails pinching me--  _in the same place Engarde's stitches were_ \-- I find myself realising-- and his hand running down my leg.

Parke's eyes widen. "Touched you, touched you, or...  _touched you_?" 

Parke's not good at dealing with this stuff, largely because Parke works well with systems and organisation of them. Parke's the type to learn by rote, the kid at school who'd have written "I must not chew gum in class" and would have never again done so. The order of prison routine suits him, and usually the same problems-- infighting and assaults and minor structural issues needing attendance-- those sorts of issues-- he knows how to handle.

It's rare for a staff member to tell him that an inmate has touched him, and I regret saying anything.

"Geez," he says. "Was this some sort of a... an assault thing?" A few years ago, we had an inmate who thought it was fun to urinate on his hand and then shake hands with as many workers as possible. Several staff implemented a "no handshakes" policy, and for the time he was with us, we always ran low on disposable gloves in the staff room. 

"Nothing like--  _that_."

 

"Mr. Phil Gross," he says, remembering.

"No-- it was more..." and for some reason it's uncomfortable telling him about it and I'm not sure why.

"You should have hit the duress alarm."

"It was over in a second," I say. "It was just unnerving." I pause. "I  _have_  told him that if he plans on doing it again, he will not be receiving my services." 

"That's understandable." Parke nods. "If it's an assault, though-- go fill out an incident report. You might be able to get comped." 

That's Parke's way of dealing with things like this, and I give him a nod-- I'm not going to fill out an incident report. 

"I'll note it down on the record, though--  _has been known to touch staff_."

And that's when I feel worse about telling him. "There's no need to do that."

"Why?" Parke looks surprised. "I mean--"

"I strongly doubt he will do it again--" and I'm thinking about what Waverley might tell Gant if they  _are_  sharing information as Lily suspects-- and what that might stir up on the unit-- "I think it's more a case of him not responding well to isolation."

"I want him out of there, too." He sighs. "I just don't know what we're supposed to do with him."

  
"My professional advice is solitary."

"But then we'd have played into his hands."

"If he's not moved to solitary, but back onto the unit, other inmates are going to suspect unfairness. Or worse yet,  _dealings_."

There's a silence between us then. I don't have to say "remember the riots?" and I don't. Parke nods. "We've got a cocktail of  _shit_  here right now, don't we?" His voice is gruff with irritation. "And I think it's gonna get a whole lot worse before it gets better."

He gets that drained, cynical look on his face that I'm too accustomed to seeing. "I'm almost tempted to go with them and move Engarde to protective."

"Just Engarde?"

"I'm just not seeing a whole bright future for him when he gets back onto the unit," he says. "First off, he's got victim written all over him anyway: he's young, he's not that bright, he's got known history of self-harming and addiction and all the other shit he's been up to, he's repeatedly been targeted for assaults, he's been openly involved with another inmate now, and Gant hates him," he says. "And after hearing a few things I heard today..."

  
I'm curious. I can't help but be curious.

"Denham overheard Gant, Tigre and Wellington in the showers this morning; he didn't hear them but said they were up to something. Then Callander-- fucking moron he is-- tells him that he overheard everything they were saying to one another--"

"Which was?"

Parke starts pacing, and holds off on telling me for a second; he's a man with information right now. "Apparently they're planning on getting them together sometime, and Gavin gets to watch whatever happens to Engarde before they kill him." 

Callander could be making this up.

"Are they on obs?" I ask.

"The minute they become aware they are, we have another target on our hands-- Callander."

I realise that. "Why do you think he told Denham?"

"Because he's running scared and wants back in with the Gant group, especially since he's freaking out about Behr and his two buddies are off the unit. Safety in numbers." 

"That's an interesting idea of safety."

"Try telling him that." Parke doesn't look impressed. "I'm still trying to work out how we kill this before we have another death in custody to deal with." Again, typical Parke: reduce it down to administrative nightmares and media concerns.

"The point is, though," he continues, "While we have Gavin in iso and Engarde in the hospital, we have time up our sleeves to come up with an airtight strategy."

"How long will Engarde be in hospital?"

"They've said at least a week, probably two: he lost a fair amount of blood and they're concerned about him." He smiles slightly, a twisted, ironic smile. "I've seen that guy end up in hospital more than just about anyone else, yet he always manages to pull through, doesn't he?" 

I nod. "Is he conscious?" 

"Not really." He shrugs. "He was asleep when I saw him; he looks like shit, though, and I actually agree with the med staff; the longer we keep him there, the better. Give him a chance to heal up lest Gavin try to pull his stitches out again."  _And to give_ you _time to work out what to do with him_ , I think.

"I think Gavin misses him."

"My heart's just  _breaking_ ," Parke grumbles. "Maybe Gavin should learn to play a bit nicer."

"You  _do_  know what that was all about, though?" I ask.

"Yeah: their manipulative bullshit and kinky sex games combine for one major fucking headache for the rest of us." He's not pleased. "I  _knew_  we should have split them up awhile ago."

I don't know what I'm supposed to say to that, and answer with a shrug. 

 

 

 

 

When I leave for the evening, I make a detour, and I head out via the hospital wing. 

There are two reasons behind it; the first is that my curiousity about Smeer is a driving force; we never  _needed_  two psychiatrists here for years, and now we have two. I hardly know Smeer, and I have a strange sort of territorial interest in the man; he's shown up and started cutting into my work.

And it's not just curiousity; it's concern. 

I've seen staff leave before. It's a high-stress, high turnover job; people leave frequently. The fulltimers, the constants-- you become used to them, they're familiar-- and you work here long enough with them that they become a strange sort of family to you. You tolerate and excuse behaviour you'd ordinarily want to write reports about, because you all-- especially if you're working on the floor-- understand the stress. 

When you're a professional, it's different. They have a hard enough time getting professionals here, and they usually want to hang onto them. So the fact that Smeer has shown up, and seemingly taken on some of my work load-- bothers me.

And perhaps there's an element of jealousy, of fear of the uncertain. 

I'm thinking about this as I walk down the newly-cleaned lino-floored hallway-- the hospital wing is further off in its own section, past the gym and the offices. The decor is still spartan and reminiscent of a typical prison, but there's a touch of normal here; it very much  _looks_  like a hospital. Since hospitals are a familiar thing from the outside world, I'm surprised that we don't see more malingering and intentional attempts at becoming hospitalised.

When I push through the doors and step inside, it's all but empty. Waverley is sitting on a chair, reading the paper, and the ward in front of me is all but empty. 

We have two patients right now; a man with Greens alliance from D-wing is lying on a bed, out cold after a procedure-- and two beds along, is Engarde, sitting up in bed, with a thick book in his hands. He looks like he's reading, concentrating heavily, his brow wrinkled in confusion. 

I want to avoid him, but he was the second reason I detoured via the hospital wing. I'm curious about his recovery.

  
Smeer's office is further to the right, past the nurse's station. The nurse on duty, Wendy Ree, is typing away on a computer, looking just as engaged with everyone else in the room is with her. 

I approach the desk, and she looks surprised, but she smiles at me and says hello.

"Are you here about Engarde?" she asks. She sounds confused, and I suddenly have this strange feeling that I don't like in the pit of my stomach, a sense that I really shouldn't be here, that I didn't think my arrival through very well and that I need to explain myself.

"I was just wondering where Dr. Smeer is," I say. "I wanted to have a word with him."

I'm no good at lying on my feet, making up quick excuses when I'm in an unfamiliar situation-- and I have no one else to blame but myself. I literally walked right into this.

"He's gone home for the day," she says with a nod. 

"Thankyou."

 

"I can pass on a message if you need to catch up--"

"Hey! Doc!" Engarde's noticed me, and I turn in his direction.

"You came to visit, did you?" 

 

"He's  _bored_ ," Wendy tells me in an undertone. "I know the file says we need to keep him here a lot longer, but already I'm having flashbacks about Wellington..."

I don't say anything, but I walk over to Engarde. He's placed the book down next to him on the bed, and he smiles at me.

Parke was right: he looks like shit. Bruises have formed on his face, and while the stitches on his cheek are covered with gauze, the purple patches on his skin look painful. It's strange when the clearest section of his face is the scarring over his other eye. A drip protrudes from one of his arms and for the first time, seeing him up close, I notice the pale standout lines running randomly across his skin-- souveniers from his days as a serious self-harmer. A blotchy black splodge of what might have been a prison tattoo sits towards the crook of his elbow and my gaze rests upon it, realising there's a lot you don't see when someone wears long sleeves all the time.

"Yeah, I wanna get that removed," he says. "It was meant to be a couple of masks, you know, comedy and tragedy, but it got fucked up big time, didn't it?" Once again, the code of silence prevails; he doesn't mention who made that mess on his arm. A few of the long-time inmates think of themselves as tattooists, and a few years ago, there was a crackdown on tattooing; health regulations and safety concerns, plus a rise in concern about gang affiliation-- but Parke and deNong believed they'd only-- no pun intended-- scratched the surface.

  
Engarde turns his attention away from the blob on his arm and looks at me. "So why'd you come by?" he asks suspiciously.

"I was actually here to see another staff member."

There's a rustle of paper from nearby and Waverley looks up. "Is someone gonna relieve me?" he asks, unimpressed.

"I don't know," I tell him.

"Hey--" Engarde leans towards me, and I glance at the title of the book--  _Policy, Procedure, Protocols: The Law in Relation to Incarceration._  "Did Gavin get in trouble for what happened?"

"I've been under strict orders to not talk about that," Waverley snarls from the chair. "Perhaps you and your butt-buddy could do with some time apart."

He turns back to the paper and Engarde sits up a little straighter, leaning forwards, a wild look in his eyes. "Perhaps Mr. Shriveldick over there needs to keep his fucken opinions to himself," he yells, spitting. "You never know  _what_  might happen if this needle in my arm accidentally ended up in  _yours_ , you worthless shitstain." He leans back, a chuckle escaping him. 

Waverley reaches down, grabbing a clipboard at his feet. "Further threats made towards staff," he comments blankly, noting something down. "Good luck returning to the unit, Engarde."

"Fuck you." Engarde turns back to me. "He's not allowed to talk to me like that, is he?"

I hate it when I'm asked for opinions on matters like this. I feel trapped, caught between the system I'm a part of and should be supporting, yet strongly suspecting that Waverley's at least partially responsible for the abuse he's incurring.

"Perhaps you could try not to engage," I suggest diplomatically.

"Perhaps he could try to not be such a  _cunt_." He flops back onto the bed, and scratches at the drip site on the back of his other hand. The medical tape has curled up at one end; I suppose it's itchy and irritating. "So where's Gavin, anyway?"

Waverley clears his throat. 

And that's when my dread and suspicion increases, and I start wondering if Smeer isn't just here because we need another psych, if he's being gradually groomed as my replacement. 

Because that's how they shift out professionals in this industry. They don't ask you to leave-- that would likely incur a payout. Instead, they bring other workers in, they redistribute your work, they downplay your achievements.

I find myself wondering how Parke, who seems to hold me in high enough esteem to consult me for advice all the time-- feels about this, and who might be behind it.

"Can't you just  _tell me_?" he whines. I glance at Waverley, who's looking at me blankly. I change the subject.

 

"What's that you're reading?" I ask him, glancing down at the book.

"Someone brought it up from my room," he says casually. "Learning my legal rights probably isn't such a bad idea in a place like this, you know?" He pointedly avoids Waverley's stare and shifts on the bed slightly, revealing his back and the tabs of the hospital gown. And two large gauze patches, one with a tell-tale stain darkening on it.

"I'm bored," he admits. "This wasn't like five years ago when all those drug guys came in and the nurses all wanted Matt Engarde's signature and to hear about the goss at Global, you know?" He sounds like a spoilt child then, deprived of attention. Five years ago, I don't point out, he  _was_  one of those drug guys. Five years ago, he was still on death row. And five years ago, his celebrity hadn't been usurped by more famous inmates. 

"Maybe you should worry about getting better so you can get back on the unit," I suggest brightly.

"Yeah, I'm sure  _some_  people will be happy to see me." He casts another glare towards Waverley, and turns to me. "Can I, like, get some more sleeping pills or something?"

"The hospital staff are taking care of your medication here," I tell him. "And since you're under their care, they know what's best for you right now... but we'll talk about medication when you're back on the unit." I pause, trying to end it on an upbeat note. "I'm glad that you're wanting to head back."

"Dude, I'm only  _on_  some antibiotics and this drip thing-- when they pull that out, I'll be set to go, won't I?"

I don't know. 

The door opens in front of us, and Field walks in, and nods to Waverley. "How's it been here?" he asks.

"You don't want to know."

"I'm sure there's  _lots_  of things Field wouldn't mind knowing about you," Engarde sneers, sitting up a bit and taking notice of his new minder.

"How are you, Engarde?"

"Bored," he says with a slight smile. "Can I, like, apply for a conjugal visit while I'm up here or something?"

"This is the shit he's been carrying on with for most of the day, when he's been awake," Waverley murmurs, cutting him off. "Have a look at the notes."

Field looks down at the clipboard, and then back at Engarde. "You know about the sexualised stuff going on your record," he says evenly. 

"Hey, I don't mean with  _you_ ," he sniffs. "No offense, dude, but you're not my type."

"Knock it  _off_ , Engarde." 

Field sits down in the chair and rests the clipboard on his lap, reading over the observation notes and ignoring us. Waverley wrinkles his nose, mumbles something about needing coffee and a stiff drink, and walks out. 

"Can you put in a recommendation that Waverley stay the hell out of the hospital while I'm in here?" Engarde asks once the door's closed. "Because he's really pissing me off."

Field doesn't answer that, and neither do I. I'm grateful when Wendy has appeared by the opposite side of the bed. 

"Visiting time's up, Mr. Engarde," she says brightly. "You've got some meds to have and I want to see how you're looking."

I give her a smile and a nod, and she smiles back.

"I'll talk to you later, Mr. Engarde," I tell him. "Get well soon, okay?"

He sits up in the bed as I turn to leave. "Yeah, seeya, doc." I open the door and he calls out to me. "Tell Gavin I'll swipe some medical equipment."

I hear Wendy stifle a laugh, and I freeze; it's funny in the sense that it's another perfectly weird, bizarre one-liner you don't expect to hear in your average workplace, it's funny because it's the sort of thing no one in their right mind would pass on, and it's funny because it's Matt Engarde, in a reasonably perky mood toying with staff and relishing having something to shock people with.

But there's no way I'm passing on that message,  _either_.

I make a mental note to request that Engarde be wanded or thoroughly searched before he's returned to the unit. With every joke told around here, there can be a brutally dangerous punch line.

 

 

 

 

It's the calm before my storm, I think to myself in the congested traffic as I'm driving home. I'm anxious, and I don't like it; just as things seem overwhelming, something else rears its head, something else I don't have time to concern myself with; I've got another mystery to unravel, one which has caught me off-guard:  _is my job safe_?

In the years I've held the position, it was never really a consideration.  _No one_  wanted to work in a maximum security prison: the hours were long, the pay was shit, the clients were monsters. As they say of the staff on the floor, you're either in there for five minutes or you're in for the long haul.

And you get comfortable, after awhile; you learn the routine and you fall into it, you become absorbed in your work. You worry about the things you're meant to worry about, your clients, keeping everyone safe, working as part of a team. Stay there long enough and you join in with the odd little mismatched family of the place.

But just like a large family, there are problems. There are subtle in fights and struggles for power-- everyone's polite about it, but you grow aware of it. 

And the fact that Dr. Will Smeer is picking up my clients worries me: when they want to fire floor staff, they fire them outright, usually for breach of protocol. When they want to get rid of casual staff, they just stop offering them hours until they need to seek work elsewhere.

When they want to get rid of professionals, they phase them out, as though we're machinery well past our use-by date. It happens slowly and subtly; anything too quick and extreme might leave a greenhorn unprepared not to mention, it would probably require a severance package.

And I know my workplace: they hate doing that.

  
The traffic crawls along like a slow day. I find myself rummaging in my pocket for my cigarettes. Today marks a new low: up until now, I've never smoked in my car.

I'm considering the afternoon's strangeness: Engarde's chirpy behaviour, his aggressiveness towards Waverley-- and I wonder to myself: is Waverley in with deNong?

Waverley has made no secret of the fact that he dislikes Gavin and Engarde, that he has all but aligned himself with the Gant group-- and that my dealing with Gavin and Engarde is somehow viewed as a warped kind of favouritism. Waverley doesn't like Parke, either, for the same sorts of reasons, I can only assume. But how much influence does he have?

I inhale on the cigarette, staring at the car ahead of me. There's a bumper sticker on the back which reads  _Do the crime, do the time: BRING BACK THE DEATH PENALTY_. I stop looking at it and cast my gaze to the controls on the radio. There's the hiss and shudder of barely audible news. I'm glad; I don't really want the news right now.

No news is good news, I'm in ignorant bliss.

Except that I'm not. I'm overtired, I'm not sleeping properly, and I think of Liz-- shit, she rang me and I never called her back-- and how she said that this job would be the death of me. Of course, she was only using a figure of speech; when Anna was little I remember her crying as I left one morning, her little arms clutching my leg, tears running down her face because she'd found out what murderers were and that daddy worked with them.

I remember Warren Dite, who'd worked there for forty years, taken his first real holiday in ten, returned for a week and then died from a seemingly random heart attack.

I wonder what did it, if he ever placed the stress-- the stress of working with the men he was working with on the floor, the stress of the staff politics, or if he worried, at his age, that he was going to be put out to pasture and replaced with the next new batch of workers.

I force myself to calm down as I get off the freeway, planning my evening ahead: I'll get in, I'll ring Liz, have a talk to her; hopefully Anna will be home and I can talk to her, too-- we can discuss something not related to my work, I can be in the rest of the world, the  _real_  world, for a little while.

  
I remember getting inside, and locking the door behind me. I remember sitting down on the sofa to gather my thoughts. And then, I suppose, came sleep.

 

 

 

 

I've heard of people who work in prisons stepping out for the day, going about their regular business, and doing double-takes when they run into men and women they've tended to on the inside-- on the outside.

It's never happened to me before. There has been the odd occasion where I've been out in the community and I've seen the back of someone who might be familiar, and then I turn away or the other person does, and we go about our business as though we never saw the other. It would make for awkward conversation, I imagine. 

So when I'm aware that Gavin is tucked behind me on the sofa, I'm terrified. I pull away from him, and he laughs quietly, calm and relaxed, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. His hand is on my thigh, and I look down at it. 

Maybe my heart has stopped. Or maybe it's in my throat. I'm not sure any more.

 _He's_  not bothered; he reaches around me with one arm, pulling me closer to him, in the sort of aggressive manner that makes the sweat rise to the surface of my skin. I've seen this move before in the films; I'm waiting; he's going to strangle me. I want my last words, I want to ring Anna and Liz-- why  _didn't_  I ring Anna and Liz?-- I just want to tell them that I love them, that--

"Shh." He presses a delicate, perfectly manicured finger over my lips. "You've known me for this long-- don't you  _trust_  me?" His voice is teasing and confident.

I want to shift away but I can't. I'm not compelled to stay here like this with him, I'm terrified. There's something wet at the side of my face; it's blood, I know it's blood, warm and sticky and horrible and when did he cut me and--

It's not blood, it's his lips. 

"What about Engarde?" I ask. I've never been this terrified in my life, my words are a hollow, grinding whisper. "Don't hurt me, don't hurt me, don't--"

"Engarde?" he asks with a chuckle. "He's right over there."

Slumped on the other side of me-- how did I not notice this?-- is Engarde, his face hanging down near my chest. He smiles at me, revealing pointed, sharklike teeth.

"Need to sharpen those teeth, don't you?" Gavin says to him in a sickly sweet voice. All I can feel around me is heat; the heat of bodies, of my own sweat; and the thud-thud-thud of my heart. A telephone rings in the background somewhere.

"I-- need to-- answer the phone." I wrench away from them, and they laugh together. Gavin's hand moves down from my lips, he's stroking Engarde's hair, giving him a sweet, encouraging smile. 

I don't remember screaming, but I realise that I'm awake. I'm disorientated; there's the light on the bench glowing its usual soft yellow light; the light on the phone is ringing, the digital display on the DVD player which I haven't used in months tells me it's just after ten.

I feel ill-- I'm shaking as I stand up, my footsteps heavy and tentative. It takes a minute for me to realise that the phone  _was_  ringing.

Dialling *69, I am determined to return the call, it's something to ground me, to distract me, to stop this bullshit.

It's not Liz, as I suspect it would have been. It's Lauryn, who rarely calls this late.

Nonetheless, I return the call, waiting for the dial tone to cease, for the familiarity of her voice.

"Hello?" It's a relief to hear her, frantic and terrible as she sounds.

"Lauryn?" 

"Thankyou for calling back," she says, and there's the muffled tears. I inhale deeply, wondering what else has happened, how much worse things can get.

"Are you all right?"

"I just need to talk."

I nod, before realising she can see me. "Okay," I murmur. Is there hesitation in my voice? I hope not, I really do-- because if she needs to talk, I need to listen; we've always worked this way.

"Is everything all right?" she asks. Her voice is the same staggered, barely-controlled whisper that mine is. 

"Not really," is the only honest answer I can give her.

There's gap in the conversation where she sighs. "Misery loves company," she says wryly. "You first."

 

"I didn't wake you up, did I?" Lauryn's gone into concern mode. "You sound like..."

I'm still shaking. "You did, but I owe you for that."

She doesn't ask why, and I'm grateful. 

"So what's happening?"

If she was crying, she's stopped now; perhaps my own bizarre state has shaken her; perhaps she's distracted by the conversation. "I... saw Klavier Gavin tonight," she says. 

"And?"

 

"He's not good." 

"I'm... sorry."

"I just look at him and ask myself why I had to completely  _ruin_  this man's life," she says quietly. There's a jolt in her voice which she's trying not to let out. "He keeps telling me I'm all he's got left, it's me and that  _piece of shit_  brother of his, that's all he has. That's all he kept saying to me." Her voice is shaking again. "One of his doctors at the hospital rang this afternoon, and there was discussion about having him committed for a while..." And she trails off uncertainly. What she's not telling me is to be suspected-- that he's about to become a different kind of institutionalised to his brother. 

"I'm sorry."

"So am I," she says. "And I'm  _pissed_." I've never heard her sound this angry before. "It's not  _fair_."

It's strange that some clients can do this to us; we know it's not fair when we go into the line of work that we do. But some of them get under our skin, and by some horrible twist of fate, the two which have gotten under ours are related. 

"I know it's not fair," I tell her. I don't know what to say beyond that. 

"I can't  _do_  anything for him-- it's out of my hands-- and it's  _my fault_."

"It's... not." 

I know she doesn't believe me when she changes the subject. "So what's happened to you?"

I ramble off something which manages to encapsulate the entire mess which passes for my life; the office politics, the recent drama involving 'two of my clients,' my concern about how secure my job is, and the nightmares.

"I'm sorry," she says weakly. 

"So am I." 

There's soft laughter from the both of us then.

"How did our lives get this screwed up?" she asks vaguely.

"We listened to our guidance counsellors, I guess." It's a half-hearted, not-very-funny joke. 

"We should sue them," she says, a laugh coming into her voice. "Between us, we know enough lawyers, don't we?"

It's the kind of laughter you force out of yourselves to cover up something else.

"So..." This is where it gets awkward. Where both of us seem to have realised that we don't want to talk about our workplaces and the people we're dealing with, where we want to talk about something  _else_ , but there's the realisation that we don't  _have_  anything else  _to_  talk about.

My one-word conversation-opener hangs there, clumsy and uncomfortable. 

"Plans tonight?" she asks. 

"Not really." 

That's when there's a change in her voice, and it's when I realise that things aren't just  _wrong_  in that regular screwed up way that we laugh about things being wrong, but they're  _wrong_ , and the following statement is how Lauryn simultaneously asks for help and offers assistance. 

"Do you want a visitor?" she asks.

"Thankyou."

 

 

 

It's a rare day when a good mood seems to be a unanimous one, but I'm pleasantly surprised when I arrive at work the next morning; everything's settled on the unit, I've been told, Parke's sent an email to everyone which is heavily punctuated with smiley faces and news that the funding for the pool renovations has come through, and preparations are underway for the annual Smile Time Variety Show. It's apparently difficult to be in a bad mood when that's happening.

The Smile Time Variety Show was one of deNong's legacies; there used to be a drama program in the prison until the funding was cut and it was revealed that the drama teacher was having affairs with two of the inmates incarcerated at the time; so to make up for the loss of Drama, deNong hoped to satisfy the prison population's thirst for creative expression via the Smile Time Variety Show. It usually consisted of a few skits and poetry readings-- inmates with party tricks could show off to an audience on-stage, and the day was something of a celebration; old rivalries were forgotten for a few hours so everyone could sit back and enjoy the show together, basking in a few moments of doing something almost normal. Visitors had a rare chance to come in and watch the performance; the day was a nightmare for the desk jockeys but fun for everyone else. News of the show coming around was generally met with enthusiasm.

A good mood day like this is like a holiday in itself. The little things don't matter, it's a case of 'Don't sweat the small stuff: and it's  _all_  small stuff" when for once, everyone seems to be functioning well as a team.

There are three things facilitating it, I suppose: one being that Waverley and Lily aren't working on the same shift together, and the other two being Gavin and Engarde, who are both still off the unit.

I want to be suspicious, but I can't; not now, it's a psychic snow day, I'm enjoying it for what it is. It's a rare moment of breathspace.

So when Parke wanders into my office, uncharacteristically smiling, I can't help but smile back at him. I want to ask about the office politics, but can't bring myself to: that'd be like telling a six year old on Christmas morning that Santa's workshop is plagued with unsafe work practises and impending union action over pay disputes. 

"Gant's in a great mood," he says with a grin, and impersonating the deep, jovial boom of a voice-- "Does everybody want to go swimming?"

"I can't believe we're actually getting the pool back."

"Me neither." Parke's brain goes into overdrive. "That's more work duties, too-- we can move some of the guys around, break up a few of the cliques which seem to have formed in the kitchen and on the production line... how many people do you think it'll take to maintain a pool that size?"

"I'm not sure."

"Well, a few, at least." He sighs happily. "We've been campaigning for this pool for  _months_  now-- and it's going to increase morale amongst the population..." 

There's something else he's pleased about, too, and I'm not sure yet what it is. But I don't dare ask; good news on a multiple good news day has a way of escaping people. "And that's another thing," he tells me, as though reading my mind. "Two things, actually-- firstly, we have a motivating factor to get Gavin out of solitary-- that lawyer who worked for him really wants to see him, and I suspect that'll put him in a good mood-- and secondly, speaking of the guy-- I've been told to drop my caseload down: Lily's now his worker."

"I bet she's pleased."

He nods. "She wanted a challenge," he says. "And they get along well enough, so the paperwork's all hers." 

"And I guess Gavin's smiling because you didn't give him to Waverley."

 

That's when I get an inkling that not all's right, that maybe there's something-- like my concerns about job security-- that Parke doesn't want to mention. 

"Thanks for reminding me," he says.

I eye him suspiciously. " _What_?"

"You haven't heard anything about Waverley being open to bribes, have you?" he looks momentarily annoyed. "Apparently there's word around the unit that Waverley's a man who can  _get things done for you_ , if you know what I mean."

Rumours about corruption vastly outnumber incidences of reports. 

I'm not naive enough to believe that it never happens, but I've seen instances where rumours get started in order to bring someone down. 

"Who's saying it?"

"Callander blurted out something, but apparently Behr was overheard talking to Wellington about it," he says. He doesn't sound terribly unhappy. "If it's  _true_ , well, it means that we have grounds for disciplinary action, so we can, at the very least, shift him somewhere else--" The smile in his eyes betrays his expected managerial objectivity. "And I know he's one of deNong's old pals, but still..."

"Am I detecting some schadenfreude?" 

"What's that?" He blinks. "I just... I dunno. Waverley's pissing me off lately."

The way he says that, it's as though he's drunk on a new sort of power. It's the first time I've looked at Parke as potentially dangerous in terms of his responsibility; he's ordinarily a team player who supports everyone.

"So what happens if I piss you off?" I ask. It's a joke. Sort of. "You bring Smeer in to take over?"

"Smeer's deNong's pal," he tells me. "I hardly know the guy." He looks at me witheringly. "You deal with all the shit jobs, and I've known you, what, ten years?-- if I had a problem with you, I think I'd tell you."

I want to trust that. 

"I don't want Smeer too far in here," he says uncertain. "He's only young, and he's better with the more straight forward stuff-- I haven't really seen him in action yet. And--" And he stops there. I raise an eyebrow, but Parke doesn't say anything in response. "Look," he says, the smile returning to his face. "Can we talk about something a bit more upbeat? This is the unanimous Day of Good Moods." He chuckles, giving me another grin. "Even Gavin'll be smiling once I let him know what's going on."

I wouldn't be too sure about that. I'm thinking about the idea of Gavin  _smiling_ ; his smiles are reserved for special occasions-- moments of triumph over others, moments of  _amusement_  at something not particularly funny. I don't recall ever seeing him in an unabashedly  _fantastic_  mood, not in the same sort of way everyone else is today. I make a mental note to ask him about that. 

I wonder what his mood is like today; solitary confinement makes catching anything, including an unexpectedly good mood-- close to impossible.

I'm seeing him; Parke hasn't mentioned it and neither have I-- apparently he's going to learn of the changes-- but I wonder which one of us will see him first.

And I wonder how Gavin, meticulous and fond of his routines-- will react to some big changes in his life here.

 

 

 

 

"I'm bored." It's unusual for him to admit to things like that. Boredom is the sign of a mind which can't be stimulated, so for me to hear him say he's bored suggests a change in him.

"Well," I tell him with a sigh, "We can make things a bit  _less_  boring for you, if you like."

"I do not wish to return to the general population." As if suddenly remembering them, he turns his gaze to the direction of the door. "I'd prefer to be moved to solitary confinement once again."

Next to me, Lily sighs, and I look at her and wonder what the hell she expected of him.

"You can't go back to solitary, Gavin," she tells him, as though he's a nagging toddler. "Our policy here is--"

 

" _Screw_  your policy." The anger in his voice isn't the typical explosiveness we're used to amongst the population, his voice is cold and hard and intimidating, as is the look on his face. This is... not quite frightening, but highly unexpected. 

Lily, sitting next to me and unflinching, tries again. "Prison policy dictates that all prisoners should have the means to attempt reintegration onto the unit and the ability to participate in the community of the facility." 

"Engarde's still in the hospital wing, is he not?" he muses. "I haven't heard  _anything_  from him." 

No one mentions the fact that he was the one who put him there.

"You can't stay in here forever."

"I know that," he says tightly. "Which is  _why_  I'm requesting a transfer to solitary."

"I'm not authorising that," Lily says.

"I don't think you have a  _choice_." It's interesting watching him try to intimidate staff-- his own caseworker in this case-- and get what he wants out of them. 

"I can refuse transfer on the grounds that it would be unsuitable or detrimental to your well-being, Gavin." Her voice is just as cold and unimpressed as his. "Now... I  _know_  you've been reluctant to engage with me in the past; I'd like to change that."

He doesn't say anything, but gives her the kind of look which suggests she's nothing more than an annoyance.

"I even went out of my way to bring in doctor--"

He kicks at the wall behind him, defiant and annoyed. "I don't  _feel_  like talking today," he says, glaring at me. In his squint, there's the suggestion that I'm betraying him. He wants me to feel guilty. He wants me to feel as though the two of us have a special connection, one which excludes other staff in the prison. He wants to use me as leverage against Lily, and against returning to the general population.

"I'm here to help you," I tell him weakly. I'm annoyed at having been placed in this position, and then I'm annoyed at being annoyed, because this is at least part of my professional role. To assist with rehabilitation.

"As you  _both_  know," he says, paused, back to the wall, seizing up and crossing his arms, "It's not safe out there. I haven't even been afforded my glasses yet. So not only is my safety at risk from various people in the general population, but my vision is impaired."

"We'll give you your glasses when you return to the unit." Lily's possibly unaware of how much she sounds like she's pleading. 

"I think that might be classed as deprivation of essential items," he says nastily. "And I have legal recourse there,  _Ms. Dale_."

He knows the system, and he's in the right. And he damn well knows it.

"I could make a complaint to the panel of custodial affairs right  _now_ , if you like," he says. He's calmed down, and looks positively amused. "If, of course, that was a threat."

Lily doesn't say anything; she stares at him, waiting for him to continue.

"I could also happen to mention a few names in relation to corruption around here," he offers vaguely. "And I have a sneaking suspicion that were that the case, my  _former_  case manager would be  _most_ unimpressed with an inquiry."

 

The penny drops there, and she turns to me, helpless. She's the gatekeeper in all this, but threatening to deprive him of the means to contact anyone is going to be another potential black mark against her, not to mention it's hardly going to give her the working relationship with him that she longs for. And keeping him silent is going to mean keeping him away from the rest of the workers and the population. Which means keeping him in solitary confinement of some description.

All I can do is try to play the diplomat, but I don't want to undermine Lily. And I don't want to betray his confidence; I'm not even sure why anymore-- if he decided that I wasn't trustworthy, he might want to cease our sessions. Or take up therapy with Smeer. Which would get him out of my hands, and out of my nightmares, most likely.

"There is another factor which might shift your opinion on remaining in isolation," I point out.

Lily continues. "We have a visitor on record for you who wishes to come and see you."

And that's when the loneliness and boredom and curiousity for what's happening in the outside world tugs at him; his expression changes slightly, and he squints, and I can tell he's at least interested.

"Who?" he asks.

"Apollo Justice."

He smiles then, and Lily gives me a sideways glance.

"Are you willing to work with me so you may  _see_  him?" she asks.

"With a few conditions," he says after a pause that feels like an hour. "I wish to return to my work duties in the library; I pose no risk there and I'm not handling any potential weapons; I wish for my sessions with  _you_ \--" he looks at me-- "to return, I want my glasses, and I want my case reassigned back to my former case worker."

" _Right_." Lily looks pained. "Most of that we can do--"

"And I want to see Engarde."

He glimpses at me in that moment, as though he's not sure whether he should have said that or not, like I might just pull Lily out of the isolation room and snigger behind a hand with her about how the two of them are an item. 

"We can do all of those things," Lily says, "Bar one."

And then there's the panic on his face. I wonder which one he's worried about.

"Your case cannot be reassigned to Parke," she says. "But... perhaps the two of us can have a reasonable relationship." She pauses, almost sympathetic. "I understand that you have difficulty getting close to people, Gavin."

He chuckles to himself, a dirty snigger of a laugh. "I actually find it quite easy," he says. "Which just demonstrates how grossly you fail to understand me, Ms. Dale."

But she's not perturbed. "Perhaps I'd have a chance if you could take me seriously," she says. And all of a sudden, I realise what's happened: she's been challenged. Lily has been here for years, up against a system where she's had to prove herself, and she's been considered a write-off for a number of reasons: she's short, she's female, she's physically quite small, and she avoids the powermongers in management. She's not physically intimidating whatsoever; but she's tough in the kind of obstinate, never-say-die way where she regards an obstacle or adversity as a challenge to conquer. 

That's why she's managed to stay here for as long as she has, and Gavin's somehow picked up on that.

"What was it that you liked about Parke so much, anyway?" she asks, pausing again thoughtfully. "Perhaps I'm not too dissimilar in some ways."

He doesn't say anything then, ignoring her, even though it's probably obvious to everyone in the room why he liked Parke: because Parke was usually too busy doing other things around the unit to pay a great deal of attention to him. 

"Parke and I had a good relationship," he says with a smile.

Is he insinuating corruption? I see Lily look slightly uncomfortable. 

"Of course, if you'd rather have a  _male_  worker," she says, "I could always suggest someone else... I know Glenn Waverley dropped a couple of cases not long ago."

 

And his expression changes again, becoming one of cold loathing. His squint focuses in on her and he looks murderous. Was this how he looked when he realised that Zak Gramarye was coming back? Was this how he looked before his explosion of rage in the courtroom when Justice pointed the finger at him?

 _You've won the battle, Lily,_  I'm thinking,  _But you've already lost the war_.

"No, no," he says lightly, smiling again. "I'd prefer not to." He tilts his head slightly. "I  _would_  like my glasses, though, and I suppose we  _will_  have a few teething issues as we get to know one another--"

 _What the hell are you doing, Gavin?_  

"--But since you insist-- I'll try to work with you as best as I can."

"Good." I can hear the uneasiness in her voice, and so can he, because I see the smile grow a bit more intense.

"So do we have a deal?" she asks after another silence.

I look at him. I should be offering an encouraging nod, but I can't; I feel  _ill_ , wondering what exactly he's planning now. I'm going to need to brief Lily about him at some stage. Soon.

"That depends on when I get my glasses, I suppose," he says. "It's hard to just  _automatically_  trust people without any kind of incentive, isn't it?"

"I suppose you're right." She nods.

I'm inclined to agree, but I realise this probably won't end here.

 

  
"Why is it--" Lily asks when we're in the staffroom, winding down at the end of our shifts, "That I feel like I've made a deal with the devil by agreeing with some reasonable requests?"

Parke turns his attention away from the recent batch of pamphlets we've received, a bunch of health sheets about sexually transmitted diseases.

"Personal research?" she asks, as a full-colour handout about herpes meets the table top. He's not interested. In the pamphlet, anymore, at least.

"Because he's Kristoph Gavin," he says, ignoring the comment about his reading habits. "Because he  _does that_."

I nod but don't say anything.

"I thought you wanted to work with him."

"I thought I did, too." She sighs. "I thought the guy would be open to working with me, at least."

"And he's not?"

I'm vaguely amused by the look she gives him then; and her lack of a need for words. 

"He opens up after a while," Parke says casually. "You just have to win his trust and respect-- once you've done that, he won't be able to get enough of you and then you have a whole  _other_  problem on your hands." And then he looks at me, as I sip my coffee, hoping to remain an observer of this conversation rather than a participant. 

"I suppose so," I say. "I'd just... keep my eyes open, that's all."

"He wants to go back to solitary, failing that, he wants to get his glasses--" Parke nods in agreement to that one-- "and remain working at the library-- and he wants to see Engarde."

"The first two-- sure." There's something hesitant in Parke's voice then. "The third-- he can wait for Engarde to make his own comeback show on the unit like everyone else has to."

"Everybody else isn't sleeping with Engarde," Lily says. As though she felt that was reasonable-- or, more likely, as though she's worried he'll fail to trust her for breaking her promise.

Parke shrugs. "That's news to me," he says.

"You know what I mean," she says. "And-- I kind of said he could see Engarde."

Parke looks thoughtful for a moment. "Did you specify  _when_?"

"No."

"Great-- he can see Engarde when Engarde returns to the unit."

Lily looks at me, frustrated and confused. "And he  _wanted_  you to remain as his case worker?" she asks incredulously.

"I know how to play his games," Parke tells her. "I know what he's like, he knows what I'm like-- there's no bullshit with me and there's no bullshit with him. We respect one another."

"More like you had a working relationship," Lily says darkly. She then looks at me. "What the hell did  _you_  do to get in his good books?"

I feel like I've been unduly put on the spot, and I don't know what to say. 

"I don't think I  _did_  anything," I say. "He just... liked me, I guess."

 

“So the question is, then, why  _doesn't_  he like  _me_?"

 

"Because you represent a change in routine," I suggest. "He doesn't like that. It makes him feel out of control."

"So the secret's making him feel like he's in control?"

"Yep." Parke grins. "All the while while you're feeding that delusion and directing him in a more positive fashion."  _Or delegating his case to someone else_ , I can't help but think.

"Okay." Lily looks frustrated, and she flicks a strand of hair out of her face. "So the idea is to let him think he's running the show?"

Parke nods enthusiastically. "Yep."

I don't think it's occurred to either of them, and it might only just be truly occurring to me now, that that might be what's actually happening.

 

 

 

 

"Lily!" 

I'm standing by the wall, smoking that before-the-drive-home cigarette. She's having her I'm-getting- _outta_ -here cigarette, and she walks the part, frustrated and tired and looking grateful to go home.

"Yeah?" She turns around and looks at me. "I'm beginning to freak out about this stuff with You-Know-Who." She looks around the carpark as she doesn't say his name; no, no one else is here, but she's Lily-- she doesn't want anyone to think she can't cope. Part of the image, and part of the reality of working here-- a crack in the facade-- might cause your colleagues to tear you to pieces. Or undermine you. 

Evidently, she remained in the staff room as I left, and Parke got in her ear.

"Maybe Parke assigned me to him because he wants Waverley and I to have something in common-- that we can't stand the guy?"

I smile. Parke's logic isn't that devious. He doesn't give a shit about them getting on or not, he just doesn't want them arguing in a public place or in front of the inmates. It's funny what you see from where I'm standing: I can already hear Waverley complaining that Lily was assigned Gavin's case because Parke loves them both and wants to give Gavin the soft female touch.

"He's not that bad," I tell her. 

She looks at me witheringly. "You know better than the rest of us," she says. "All I know about is what's in the case file: poisoned an old man, tried poisoning the guy's kid, killed a guy in cold blood seven years after he'd been insulted-- and why? All to bring down a lawyer over some perceived slight." Her nose wrinkles as she continues: "Molested his younger brother when he was a  _teenager_ , has been known to randomly and violently assault fellow inmates, and has-- I don't even  _know_  what you'd call that shit with Engarde." She stares at me, unimpressed. "And he has all the remorse of a suicide bomber.  _Not that bad_." 

I don't know  _why_ , but I feel oddly defensive of him in that moment. It's not some sort of sentimental thing where I think he just needs understanding and to do some cutting and pasting; but the idea of him as a _problem_  to be handballed around prison staff bothers me. 

"He's easier to talk to than most of them are," I point out. "He's never posed a threat to staff, he isn't a drug user, and he's well-spoken and quite happy to discuss anything of your choosing." I sigh. I'm not trying to sound like his agent, but I'm trying to point out the positives. "He's surprisingly easy to handle."

"Until he decides to bite someone's finger off," sh says.

"And even then, it'll probably be Matt Engarde's and not yours."

The two of us stare at one another and burst out laughing. It's a sneeze of a laugh, necessary release given how heavy the conversation is.

"That's not that funny," she says cautiously.

"You're right."

And we're chuckling again, guiltily. 

"Look," I tell her, "He's one of those people who reacts to fear. He likes having people afraid of him; it affords him power. If you believe what Parke and Waverley say about him, he's going to pick up on that. And he won't have any respect for you-- he's like all the rest of them in that respect-- showing vulnerability doesn't earn respect."

"Yet being terrified and pretending you're not  _does_?" 

"Yes." I pause. "And then he'll get used to you and you won't know what to do with him."

She looks at me darkly. "He wasn't like this with Parke."

"How often did you see him interacting with Parke?" I ask.

Her eyes widen then as though I've let something slip that I shouldn't have.

"Something's going on with him," she says to me quietly. She lights up a cigarette of her own, just as I'm crushing mine out against the bricks behind me. "Something's up."

 

I don't say anything. Staffing politics usually don't affect me; I'm not on the floor, I'm independent of the whole mess. Regardless of who's where and doing what, I'm still the prison's psychiatrist. Was, until Smeer joined me. 

"I keep getting the sense that he's going to try for deNong's role," she says quietly. "All this stuff with the pool money coming in and the refurbishments... and now he's lightened his caseload. Either he can't deal with Gavin and realises no one  _can_  but doesn't want some serious shit to hit the fan when he loses his shit while he's listed as the caseworker-- or he's lightening his load for another reason." She inhales on the cigarette and I can practically see the filter darken. "I wonder if there's a coffee mug with atroquinine on it and Glenn Waverley's name written on it somewhere?"

She laughs, but it's not that funny. 

"That could come from anyone, I guess," she corrects herself. "I mean, how many people don't get along with Waverley?"

 _And how many are insane-- or furious-- enough to want him_ dead _?_

"There are a few," I say vaguely, without admitting that I happen to be one of them.

"Why don't they just fire him? Or offer a severance package or something?" She breathes out a stream of smoke. "I mean, they stood down Roy over that key incident--"

I'm about to point out that someone was sexually assaulted and held hostage and the SORT team were called in, but then find myself thinking about Gavin telling me about what happened to Engarde, and Gavin's disgust at what no one seemed to react to. It feels somehow irreverent to discuss it.

I shrug instead, and she sighs, inhaling again. "If anything, the fact that Waverley hates Gavin makes me almost want to  _like_  him," she admits. "Just because I know it would piss him off." She chuckles to herself. "There's a plan, actually-- right?"

"Maybe you and Gavin can bond over it," I tell her in half-seriousness. Or maybe not. I can already imagine his unimpressed face seeing her attempting to find common ground with him. "Look--" I admit. "I found that he made demands of me when I first met him-- I helped him with the more feasible ones, and redirected him away from the ridiculous ones." I think about the music. "In some cases, I just tried to think of what he might find valuable, and worked from there. Sometimes it worked."

"I don't want to think about what he enjoys," she says. "I ate not long ago."

She crushes her cigarette out, dropping it on the ground and squishing down on it with her foot. It's time to head off home. 

"I'll see you tomorrow," she says with a smile. "I hope I won't need your intervention like I did today."

"You won't," I assure her, already walking to the car and giving her a wave-- "Goodnight, Lily."

"'Night."

 

  
It's when I'm on the road that I look at the sky: the smog often obscures it, but tonight I can see a moon, at least, full, round and yellow, peeping out at me from behind clouds.

By the time I arrive home, the clouds have shifted and I can see it's enormous; a giant, vaguely ominous yellow ball close to the earth, its blemishes and craters obvious. 

Rumour and folklore has it that full moons are the time of madness in some workplaces; science and knowledge of mental health issues usually makes me sniff at that notion, the moon's placement in relation to the earth has no more of a correlation to the likelihood of a breakdown or an episode any more than the price of gold or the value of shares does. 

By tonight... is a little bit different; I find myself looking up at the moon and stepping inside a little bit more quickly, a little less interested in seeing the ugliness of the craters and scars on its face than I ordinarily would.

I find myself stupidly, superstitiously-- wondering what craziness will have unfolded by the time I'm back at work and the moon has disappeared from view again.


	15. Can't Be Fixed

I'm not particularly interested in the staff meeting, to be honest. It happens around me; the discussion is mostly limited to the new allotment of funding to the programs, and to the pool, to some changes in caseloads, to the Smile Time Variety Show, and a need for all staff to be available since visitors will be present on the day. 

All the staff are expected to attend, too; as workers in specific areas of the prison, we're meant to  _smile_  when we see our clients participating in a community event such as the show. 

And hope that nothing gets out of hand.

deNong's theory as to why it works is because it's empowering; it gives the inmates a voice and an audience for the time being, it allows them to  _be_  an audience, not just cattle to be moved from one mundane task to the next. It's a day of respite and pardoning, where the focus isn't on the routine. And it's harmless. Apparently: I've always harboured the suspicion that something could go hideously wrong during the day, that it's the perfect opportunity for a riot; all the inmates in the one space for a few hours, the realisation that there are more of them than there are workers occurring to someone... all one needs is the flicker of a spark to ignite chaos.

No one seems to think that it will happen, that no one wants to be the guy who caused the Smile Time Variety Show day to stop. Which is wonderful in theory, but when you have some of the inmates we have right now--

"So what about inmates in solitary?" Denham asks.

"There aren't any right now-- let's keep it like that."

Lily lets out a sardonic cackle. "We need to get Gavin out of iso," she says. "And he's going to _want_ to go back to solitary."

"He does enough smiling," Waverley sniffs. "No stage show for him, then."

"Maybe we should wait until he does something solitary-worthy before we think about that," Parke suggests. "Today he goes back on the unit and then we work out where to go from there. Maybe he won't do anything."

"He still wants the library," Lily says. "I guess that's got bribe power."

I look at Parke in that moment, and away from the painfully cheerful poster on the wall facing me which advises us to work safe, work as a team-- and notice him squirm slightly. "That was my other announcement," he says. "When the centre was being assessed in terms of occupational health and safety risks, it was found that there was asbestos in the library section."

Not far away from me, Belle nods unhappily.

"Now-- it's fortunate that our wonderful library staff is taking her long service leave-- so while that's happening, the library can be refurbished and sorted out."

Belle nods, but I don't like the look on her face; I suspect she's like me, and worried about change in the same uneasy sort of way I have been since Smeer turned up. "Mr. Gavin won't be happy," she says.

Lily doesn't look very happy, either. "Can we shift the library to somewhere  _else_ , perhaps? Education centre?"

"That doesn't belong to us," Parke says, irritated. "That belongs to the Department of Education. And they've already said they don't have the facilities to even  _store_  the library materials."

 

It's a territorial dispute, I can tell, from the way Parke's brow is furrowed and from the tone in his voice. A few years ago, there was industrial action from the union, and it was decided that qualified teachers needed to be offering educational pathways out of the criminal justice system rather than untrained staff who weren't receiving the pay or acknowledgement to suggest that they were standing in as teachers. In the end, the department of social services stepped in, and teaching staff were hired for a section of the prison which was paid for by the Department of Education. It was all a token gesture because only a small few of the population qualify for use of the educational facilities, and to keep things cost-effective, there aren't the staff to accommodate more. But because the building belongs to them and not  _us_ \-- the private corporation which runs the prison-- we're not allowed to use it. Which is one reason Parke and deNong hate independant service providers coming in here, even though both will give them a professional nod and talk about how it's all great in the interests of prisoner welfare.

"So what happens to the books?"

"Storage," Parke says bluntly, "Until the library's refurbed."

There's a murmur around the room, and Parke grimaces. "I know it's gonna piss a lot of people off, but there isn't much else we can do for the time being."

"Hope for a riot," someone, Denham, I think, jokes from towards the back of the staffroom.

"We don't hope for riots here," Parke says in the way that suggests that the chips will fall where they may when the closure of the library is announced, and that it may just end in a riot, "We work safe here, folks."

There are a few slightly amused chuckles from around the room. "Anyway, he says, "If anyone's got any ideas on this or what we can do about--"

"Where does Gavin get reassigned?" Lily asks abruptly.

And it's funny, because there I can see she's concerned about him as his worker-- "The library is a motivating factor for good behaviour." She likes having a bribe. And she likes that he's motivated. And she doesn't want to see him fuck up. 

"He'll just have to learn to behave himself elsewhere," Parke says. "Like the rest of them do."

 

"Put him in the morgue," someone suggests.

"There's a comforting thought," Waverley adds, sounding sickened. "Morty doesn't need that sort of creepiness."

Parke actually smiles then. "Morty and him would probably get along, actually."

Morty. Rick O'Mortus, the prison's mortician, here because he has to be only since there are relatively few deaths in the prison, and generally post-mortem considerations are taken care of by the deceased's family, he tends to do a variety of other things downstairs. Morty is known for his off-colour complexion and sense of humour, but also for being weirdly tolerant of most of the prison population, and unfazed by the sort of criminality which causes others to look sick. 

"I wouldn't want him playing around with me after I'm dead," Tona says, but no one else responds. 

Parke smiles. "I might just see if he needs an extra pair of hands down there."

"At least he'll get to wear gloves, I guess," Waverley says with an unimpressed sneer, sipping his coffee and glaring at a non-specific thing in the distance.

"Right," Parke says, "Now before this turns into another Gavin-fest, we need to discuss some other issues--"

I blank out again, and sip my coffee. I have a full book today, and the meeting does little to hold my interest or distract me.

  
"I got access to tooled programs," Crescend tells me as he sits down. He seems a bit happier. 

"I was going to ask you about the antidepressants," I tell him, raising an eyebrow.

He sniffs, arms folded, looking at the surface of my desk.

"You know how when chicks get knocked up, they wanna throw up all the time?" he asks. "And they get all moody and cry a lot and shit?"

I nod.

  
"That's what it feels like," he says. "Fucken sucks, yanno?"

"There's an adjustment period," I point out, "As your body gets used to them, you might experience some side effects."

"I dunno, I don't want this shit lasting forever and fucking Wellington was saying when he went on pills they stopped him getting hard." 

I clear my throat. "Sometimes they can have that effect," I tell him, "But we could try a different variety--" and Crescend butts in. "Not that I'm doing it with anyone in here or anything, but, yeah: I'm not going all weird like Callander coz I can't get a hardon, yanno?"

"I understand," I tell him seriously. I don't. I don't really want to think about it, to be honest. "If you get any such effects, we can discontinue them and try something else."

"What do you mean,  _we_?" he asks. "I'm the one ingesting this shit."

"Fair point, Mr. Crescend." I give him a nod and a smile. "How's life on the unit, anyway?" 

He shrugs. "Same old shit," he tells me. "I'm allowed to use a proper guitar in programs, though, and I'm working on a song for the variety thing." He sniffs. "You know that show we do? Yeah, well I thought I'd do that this year, even though the guitar's a piece of shit."

That must be painful for him, and I nod without saying anything.

"I had an Elitist SG out  _there_ ," he says. "It was... perfect." There's a spark of enthusiasm, of love, of something  _affectionate_  in his voice for a moment there, which is gone in less than a second. "Now I'm having to play on this piece of bargain basement bullshit they brought in here." His face contorts in disgust for a moment, and then he softens. "I suppose it's better than nothing, and no way in hell would I bring Gitta into a shithole like this."

"What's the song about?" I ask him.

And that's when he's uncomfortable again. 

I dunno," he says vaguely, a hand meeting his hair and brushing it back. "Just standard pop bullshit, you know?" I'm almost excited for him. I'm almost excited for  _me_. My mind drifts to telling Anna that I getting to see Daryan Crescend play live. He sounds so uninterested in it but it's partially an act; that glimmer in his eyes earlier was the first time I've seen a real enthusiasm from him about anything. 

It's moments like this that I'm reminded that the variety show isn't just an unnecessary security risk.

"We get to invite people, don't we?" he asks. "Family and friends and stuff."

 

"You may, depending on circumstances-- you'll have to ask your worker about that."

"Cool," he says casually. "Might give Klavier something to smile about, you know?" There's a cool, smug sort of smile on his face, and once again, I'm sensing a strange sort of mystery. Just  _what_  is the relationship between the two of them? And why does he want Klavier back in the prison?

"I've heard from him," he says vaguely, keeping it calm. "It started out as me being curious, but-- the poor bastard didn't deserve  _that_ ," he says. "And he ain't doing so well, apparently."

I decide not to mention what I've heard from Lauryn. Privacy laws and all.

"Maybe he could come along and see all these dicks making dicks of themselves and be able to enjoy some decent music." He smiles to himself then; there's no bitterness in the smile, no drastic sort of revenge plan; it seems that while Crescend is feeling lousy because of the pills, he's calmer in some way, he's found himself a sense of purpose in some fashion. And he's trying to rebuild a bridge with his former bandmate.

And then I'm seeing and hearing the disappointment prematurely, realising there's probably no way in hell Klavier will come to see the show, and it's shattering because Crescend seems so hopeful that he  _will_. I can't mention it, and I hope in that moment that I'm wearing a convincing poker face.

When Crescend leaves, I find myself feeling sorry for him.

 

 

 

 

It's not long after midday when I head to the hospital for a consultation with Engarde. The report I've received from the hospital staff suggests that he's ready to be moved out-- he's bored and moving around, and according to his doctor, has been demanding to return to the unit.

I'm displeased; I realise Wellington probably stayed there for  _too_  long, and that Engarde's demands might be causing them to feel pressured, but sustaining injuries resulting in blood loss, causing him to pass out should surely mean more than a few days in care.

Apparently not. Cost-cutting is a factor here, too; this isn't a facility that accepts insurance and lets you stay for as long as it takes; this is a stark emergency setting-- patch 'em up, get em out.

Nonetheless, it bothers me.

  
Engarde has requested to be met in the consultation room, the same place where inmates receive bad news about blood results and where they find out that the operation wasn't successful. Like the hospital, it smells sterile and chemical; unlike the rest of the place, its walls are a soft, muted peach, and there are pastel curtains over the window looking out towards the nurse's station. Such curtains would pose a security risk on the unit, but here there's the expectation that sick people will either not consider that, or that they'll be sufficiently feeble to be overpowered by staff should a problem arise. 

Hamm waits outside as I take my seat in the room and close the door. Engarde is sitting opposite me at the table, plaster tape over the injury on his face, bruising surrounding the bandage.

"Hey, doc," he says quietly, watching me, then taking a sip from the cup on the table. Someone's given him chocolate milk.

"Hello, Mr. Engarde."

"Can I go back to the unit?" His voice is a whine and he sounds almost childlike. What I can see of his face is scrunched up in irritation. "I'm bored." 

"I thought you would have appreciated the time away from the unit,."

"Maybe so, but there's no people here. 'xcept the nurses, and they don't talk to you. And Waverley comes in and gloats." His nose wrinkles. I wonder how often he's resorted to this, to acting like a spoiled, helpless child in order to get his way. Of course, being a pampered celebrity probably encouraged him to do so; he lived in a world where an agent and the studio took care of his basic needs and he didn't so much as have to lift a finger when he wanted something. 

"You're here to get better, not to talk to people," I tell him.

"Yeah, and I  _am_  better."

I try to introduce a different topic. "The report I was reading said that you don't wish to press charges against your cellmate for what he did to you."

He looks thoroughly annoyed then. "No," he snaps. "I think we  _all_  know what that was about, right?"

"It could technically be regarded as an assault."

"It wasn't." He glances down at the tabletop. "And it's not like I'm scared or anything, either," he says quickly. "I just... you know how it goes." He flicks the hair out of his face so I'm able to see the scarring. Maybe it's a surreptitious attempt at scaring me, or at pointing out the fact that damaging injuries are nothing to him, that he's done worse to himself than what landed him in hospital. 

I don't know what to say to him, and he looks suspicious, as though I may not believe him.

He chuckles under his breath, not meeting my eyes any more. "Yanno, doc, I've done some pretty out-there stuff before coming in here," he says. "No big deal, you know."

"I doubt any of those things could have killed you."

He smiles slightly, almost proud. "There were times I probably could have died in here from the shit that's happened," he says casually. "But still, this was different." His eyes meet mine and the smirk disappears. "Like it or not, this was consensual." He laughs again, and runs his fingers through his hair, slicking it back, and letting his hand trail down his cheek, barely brushing over the scarring across his eye. "You people don't really get it, do you?" he asks. And he seems so damned  _pleased_  about it, like it's some kind of secret, something he has over us that's  _his_  and that no one else can get to. He picks up his cup and sips his chocolate milk again. 

 

"Does it bother you guys more that I mightn't be talking because I'm scared and you're scared for my safety or does it bother you that I enjoyed it?" 

There's the intense gaze from him again, and he folds his arms, as though challenging me. "What is it, doc?-- because no one gave a shit about my safety until I wound up in a cell with  _him_."

It occurs to me that no one's told him that he won't be returning to his old cell and his old cellmate. I wonder if he'll be so enthusiastic to return to the unit when he finds out what he'll be returning to.

"It doesn't make me uncomfortable," I tell him. Lying through my teeth. I'm hit with flashes of memories; of that first night when Engarde's shoulder was bleeding, of him proudly showing me the bandage, of the medical staff removing him from the unit and sending him into the hospital. 

"But it is of concern, Mr. Engarde," I'm trying to be careful. "Especially since you've been victimised in here before and you've had self-harming tendencies in the past." 

He giggles, and his eyes widen. "You're shitting me, right?" he asks.

"...No. I'm not, Mr. Engarde."

"That's funny," he says. "That's...  _funny_." He sips his chocolate milk once more. "Because it's almost like you--" he points at me-- "people only get bothered by things when people are enjoying them." 

"You've said that before, but I assure you that's not the case."

"Look, Gavin did what he had to in order to get us off the unit," he said. "I consented. Now he's in solitary and I'm stuck here and I'm bored and hopefully things have died down and it'll be okay to come back." His voice rises as he's getting angrier. "Or has something else happened?" He's horrorstruck. "Gavin doesn't have AIDS or hep or something, does he?" 

I don't respond to that. Even if he did, it wouldn't be within my rights to mention it. 

"He hasn't necked himself in solitary, has he?"

I shouldn't say anything about that, either, but the look on his face then, the horror and fear overwhelms me for a moment. "No," I tell him, "He hasn't. And I can't say anything about any diseases he may have, but if you're concerned about that, maybe you should ask for some bloodwork while you're in here."

He sniffs, and shrugs in the direction of the door. "I'll pass," he says offhandedly. "I trust him."

The first-year med student in me wants to gasp in horror and talk about awareness and risk. The veteran of the correctional facility knows what these guys are like.

"Look," he says finally, slowing down and possibly growing calmer. "Gavin and I like pain." He sounds almost embarrassed now. "He likes giving it, I like feeling it-- and he knows what he's doing." He smirks at me, and I'm wondering if I'm about to hear some sort of story I don't wish to. 

I'm tempted to ask why he trusts Gavin, though, why a sadist with no qualms about cold-blooded murder, betrayal and the desire to kill a  _child_  has managed to be afforded  _trust_.

"Probably the best thing this stupid place has done for me is put me in his cell." And then there's the flash of another smile; triumph. "And you can look at my record-- no suicide attempts, no drug use, no ODs, nothing."

"Perhaps you've substituted hurting yourself for being hurt by Gavin."

His face tightens and his glares at me. "Perhaps you're a fucking idiot and you really don't get it," he snaps, loud and out of control. "Maybe it's more than that, you know?" 

"Mr. Engarde, you don't need to yell at me."

He slams the cup of milk down on the tabletop, and it jumps, leaving a decorative splatter of pale pinkish brown on the surface. "Fuck you!" he snaps. 

And this is the Matt Engarde of the past, the one I remember; mercurial and damaged and liable to jump at benign comments. I flinch back in my seat. 

Have I touched a nerve and the accuracy hurts, or have I completely misconstrued things? Or am I tangled up in some  _other_  game they're playing with me, with the system-- one that I didn't even know was in progress let alone get the rules for?

"I think I'm going to have to end our session here, Mr. Engarde." I hear something behind the door; Hamm possibly heard the bang and wondered about it.

"Fuck you!" he yells, standing up. "Send me back to the fucking unit."

"I'm not in a position to make recommendations when you're unsettled, Mr. Engarde." 

"Screw you!" 

I duck out the way as the cup of milk hits the wall behind me, and Engarde paces at his end of the room, kicking the wall, making everything shudder.

And that's when I hit the duress alarm. 

They don't expect the ill and injured to cause problems, so I suppose it's a change in routine for the staff who've come running and who are attempting to assist in restraining Engarde. 

I step back as the door's flung open and Hamm jumps in, his height and his age probably making him one of the least likely to secure him. When Field and Tona show up, both looking vaguely surprised, Engarde has escalated, grabbing the back of a chair threateningly, swinging it around. When Tona grabs the chair, he lets go, falling back, not expecting the release. Field and Hamm move towards Engarde as he backs his way into the wall, fists and obscenities flying, most of the latter inaudible over the screech of the duress alarm. 

Hamm drops to the ground when he's kicked, and Engarde squirms back, almost surprised, the reality of having put a worker to the ground finally getting at him. Tona lunges in then, pushing him into the wall; Field's behind him trying to grab a flailing arm, someone somewhere has switched the duress alarm off and there's the sudden relief and the noise of a scuffle and Engarde spitting out yells which mostly consist of some variation on the word "cunt." There's another yell as one of his arms is wrenched behind his back-- and then silence-- he's breathing heavily, and he has a wild look in his eyes.

A nurse I haven't seen before wanders in. "He's down for Straphalazine if he gets agitated," she says, and my eyes widen at the mention of an antipsychotic.

"Who put him down for that?" 

"Are you calm?" Field asks Engarde, who attempts to lash around at him, mouth snapping as though he wants to bite. 

"I'm going to kill every last one of you motherfucking cunts," he hisses.

"Smeer put it down on his chart."

"I never authorised that." I feel a rage growing inside me, and a longing to get Parke here  _now_  because it's never been prison policy to  _sedate_  inmates for unruly behaviour.

"He doesn't have any--" I start saying, but Field, still pushed against him, nods. "Just get something into him before he bites me."

"Fuck you!" 

I edge towards the door.

"And fuck you, too!" Engarde snaps at me. I make my exit as the nurse rushes past me, as though I'm not even there, a syringe in her hand.

I'm beyond furious as I hear another scream from Engarde and the door shut behind me.

 

 

 

I'm feeling the stress. Feeling my neck throbbing and the heat in my face, wondering when I started expressing my discomfort so externally. 

It's stress and it's guilt--  _I_  was the one who pressed the duress alarm. I was the one who called everyone in, who alerted them to the fact that Engarde was escalating and growing aggressive.

I was the one who caused him to be the murmuring, drooling mess that he was, orbiting somewhere outside of the confines of the prison walls, lost in space and time and to himself, because someone had changed his medication without my awareness.

  
I suspected they'd do what they usually do; ask him to calm down, and then possibly restrain him. Being in the hospital, it's not like they can put him into isolation; I don't think-- I'm not sure. Usually once patients are able to react like that, they're moved back to their unit. Unless they're Richard Wellington, who behaved himself and kept malingering.

I wasn't expecting to see a new, terrifying low: Engarde being sedated like a wild animal. I'm angry with Smeer. I'm angry about the way any professional opinion I could have offered was overridden by a signature and a recommendation from a man who'd not seen Engarde as I had throughout the years.

I'm trying to recall when he escalated. We were talking about his injuries. About Gavin. About him going back to the unit. I sigh to myself, rubbing my neck.

  
"They should let  _us_  carry that stuff around," Towne says with a laugh in his voice. "It'd cut down on injuries." I turn around and see him and Parke wander into the staffroom, Hamm following behind them, the shadow of a bruise appearing along the side of his face.

"Seriously, whack it in, drop 'em, and let them wake up in iso." 

"Until you get chronic cases doing that for the buzz." Parke sounds uncertain and unimpressed. "I wonder how long Engarde's staying clean, now."

"Apparently it's not that sort of a buzz," Towne says. "They just sleep; only time I've seen Engarde that compliant's when he's been scarcely conscious."

 _Perhaps you've substituted hurting yourself for being hurt by Gavin._

I watch as the three of them sit down and acknowledge me with their eyes-- I push my feet out and walk to the sink to make myself a coffee. My head is throbbing and I feel vaguely ill. And Towne's jovial manner is annoying me.

"It was like something out of a movie when I saw him," Hamm says, with the same sort of uncertainty as Parke did. "He was lying there, murmuring things and drooling like an idiot."

"He smacked you in the head," says Towne unsympathetically. "And kicked you."

"Yeah-- did you get that incident report filled out?" Parke looks up, and his voice is full of concern and urgency. "Can you do that before you go home? I don't want to hear that you need the week off and there's no accompanying paperwork."

"Thanks for the sympathy." Hamm grins, sarcastic. He's worked with Parke for nearly as long as I have; they know one another and they joke around one another like that. And they both have the firmly ingrained sense of humour you get when you've worked here for awhile.

It's Towne who pulls me into the conversation as I'm filling my mug. "What do you say we get some more of them approved for this Straphalazine stuff, hey, doc?" 

"I'd argue that it's effectively working against the inmates learning to readjust their behaviour," I tell him, and then glance at Hamm. "Though I can see why it looks like a feasible solution."

"That other shrink seemed to think Engarde should have been on it." Hamm looks at me. "Your professional opinion on  _that_  is...?"

I feel like I'm being tested. As though they want me to sling mud at his name.

"Never even met the guy," I say quietly, hoping I'm sounding even-toned. "Would have been nice to know that someone saw something in him that I didn't."

Parke shoots me a strange look then, something sympathetic. "People just make  _decisions_  around here," he says. "For the record-- I wanna know what got Engarde so wired up."

Is he implicating  _me_  in that somehow?

"I think he's frustrated and bored and that his episode might have been partially motivated by a desire to return to the unit."

"So you think he's trying to pull the same stunt that landed him in the hospital in the first place?"

"If he's worried Gavin's out there by himself, that makes sense," Hamm says with a nod. "I just wish I didn't collect one in the face for it."

"He's gonna have one hell of an  _episode_  when he realises he's no longer rooming with Gavin, isn't he?" Towne sounds smug. "But we can get more of that stuff into him, then, can't we?" 

"It's not prison policy to drug inmates for being unruly," Parke says seriously. "For us  _and_  for them. For one thing, it makes it look like we don't have control of the situation, for another, we need proper authorisation and medical staff on hand for administering drugs in that manner."

There's a smile in his voice as he turns to look at me. I feel like he's on my side. 

It doesn't ease the stress symptoms however.

 

 

 

 

I'm not used to seeing workers who aren't escorting inmates-- or who aren't  _Parke_ \-- showing up for a random chat.

So I'm surprised to see Lily behind the knock on the door, but she looks at me, intent and serious. "Hello, doctor," she says with a nod. "Can I come in?"

I shrug; it's a tired, automatic reaction, and she takes that as some form of invitation.

"Parke told me to come in and see you," she says. I'm wondering if I'm being expected to play the role of workplace mediator once more, and can practically hear my brain sighing, unimpressed.

"He says you're probably the only person who isn't Engarde or the librarian who has any kind of rapport with Gavin."

"I've been seeing him for a while," I say with a shrug. "What do you need?"

She walks over to the chairs at my desk and sits down, pushing out with her feet slightly and looking at me. "I need some strategies," she says. "For working with him: he's impossible, and he was returned to the unit this afternoon." Her face tightens. "Waverley's been taunting him a bit about Engarde punching Hamm in the face, too, so he's worked up about that."

I nod but don't respond. 

"They've put him in with Moreau, so I think it's dawning on him that he's not going to be rooming with Engarde any more, too," she continues uneasily-- "I'm getting blamed for that and he's all but refusing to talk to me." Her face tightens, and I can tell she's annoyed; annoyed and frustrated. 

"How does he seem to be coping with Moreau?" I ask. "He's a laid-back guy."

That's when her expression changes, and she looks thoroughly disturbed. "Moreau's harmless," she says. "Technically brilliant, socially naive-- they should have put him and Callander in together." Her nose wrinkles. "I can see why they  _didn't_  do that, because that would have left us with them and Gavin and Behr-- but-- whoever authorised that's just dragged someone else into this whole mess."

I can't help but agree with her, and I think she realises, narrowing her eyes. "Would  _you_  trust Gavin around someone who relates better to machinery than people?" 

She has a point; Moreau, like Gavin, though, has usually been reasonably well-behaved. There'd been a few incidences where he'd been victimised as a new inmate, which gradually fell away when younger, greener, and more noticeable inmates messed with status in the pecking order, and barring a few incidents where he decided to groom technically-unsavvy staff into allowing him access to their computers, he's been the model prisoner.

I clear my throat, still looking at her, wondering what she's thinking.

"I would be concerned about Gavin manipulating him, at least."

"Or killing him, I suppose. There were hardly any Valentines between him and Engarde when they first roomed together, remember?" She looks bothered with what she's just said, and corrects herself dryly. "Didn't take them long to make love, not war, right?"

I don't think either of them have talked about the shift in their attitudes towards one another. Interesting.

"Well Moreau's straight," Lily continues. "I can't see Gavin fucking him." She stops herself again, considering. "Fucking with his  _head_ , though-- I don't know. And if Engarde gets the idea they're doing the nasty, they'll probably be sticking even more sedatives into him."

There's a look in her eyes suggesting that maybe she wanted to ask about that, too.

"That wasn't anything to do with me."

"I know," she says. "And Parke knows. And Parke's  _pissed_."

Perhaps that's when I give away a look of interest. I can't help it. I work in the prison system; it's a game of strategy and watching your back for the staff as much as the inmates. And the idea that Parke is visibly _pissed_  is interesting to me.

 

"deNong's been shitting himself since the inquiry into security after the failed mediation effort with the Gavin brothers." There's conspiracy in her voice. "He wants Parke out for making him look stupid with that fuckup-- so he's trying to bring in his contingent of staff, and well, rumour has it--" She looks nervous for a moment, her eyes darting towards the door and then back to me. "You've heard the talk about Gant and Waverley, right?" She crosses her fingers-- "that they're in like  _that_?"

I look at her blankly, and for a moment she looks as though she's said too much. "I can't believe you haven't heard--"

"I think I know what you're talking about," I say with a careful smile. 

"Yeah," she says. There's an uncomfortable tension in the air around us. "You can see what they mean when they get the idea that Gant runs the place."

I don't reply to that. 

"How  _has_  Gant been in relation to Gavin?" 

She smiles. Sarcastic. Unimpressed. Dry. "Officially, nothing's happened; most of them are avoiding him. Like he's a diseased animal, as though biting and scratching up Engarde is somehow bottom of the barrel." Leaning in a bit closer, I can tell she doesn't buy it for a moment. "They're waiting to strike; they're trying to work him up, but they don't want him in solitary. We've seen suspicious behaviour from Behr and Tigre and Wellington, and after the rumours about what they're going to do when Engarde returns..." She wrinkles her nose again. "Not that that's going to happen-- Parke and I are already working out a game plan and trying to deal with any cracks in the system... we don't want anyone moved, but the Gant guys aren't going to get to Engarde. It's all smoke and mirrors: they just want to see Gavin lose it."

I nod. In a messy kind of way, it makes sense. Gavin, since his arrival here, has had few moments of indignity; he's kept his head held high for the most part, and even when cornered by staff and violent, has held an eerie level of self-control in regards to his responses and reactions.

And that, for other men who are used to people breaking and falling into line, is terrifying.

"So how--" she asks as I relax back in my chair and she leans forward in hers-- "Do I get through to him?"

"Listening and bargaining?"

"All he wants is Engarde back on the unit," she says. "Not that he  _says_  that, but you can see it; he flinches when he hears someone mention him-- you hear the whispers of that  _nickname_  he's acquired-- and he tenses up like he's about to get a cavity search." 

"Have you tried talking to him about Engarde?"

She gives me a withering sigh. "Is talking about Engarde going to put me off eating?"

Good question. "He was reasonable when he talked to me about Engarde," I offer diplomatically. _Well, for the majority of the time._

"Yeah," she says dryly, arms folding into one another. "And you're Doctor Doolittle-- talk to the animals, indeed." She smirks. "Me? I'm just a  _screw_." She looks thoughtful. "At least I haven't had any of  _that_  from him, I guess-- he's probably the first one I've had who doesn't like me who hasn't threatened to rape me."

She talks about it like she's reciting times tables.

All in a day's work. I look at her, at the tired and frustrated face, at the lines forming near her mouth and wonder what Lily's story is. When she was Anna's age, did she want to be an actress or a rock star or a nurse or a teacher, and did she at some stage look at her life and ask herself how the hell she wound up here? Did she have aspirations for the world and her life and did she ever consider going into a line of work where threats of sexual assault and violence became so frequent that they became ineffective?

"I want to crack him," she says. "It's annoying me that he's not even talking to me any more." She sniffs. "He seemed to get on well with me when he was under Parke and I had White."

I don't want to think too much about White and Gavin's possible connection, and I wonder if Lily's wondering about that, too. 

 

I long to tell her it isn't personal, but she knows that, and it doesn't make her job easier. I can't do that: suggesting that she doesn't already know this after years of working ere is like suggesting that I have no confidence in here. Someone suggesting they have no confidence in you here can be like cancer: the self-esteem goes, and then does the motivation, then the control, then the career. The team which which works smart together also will eat into you like a virus, co-opting your clients to do the same if they detect weakness.

I know this. Lily knows this.

"I don't know," I tell her. "Perhaps wait for him to suggest something, and then run with it. Make sure you can make it happen for him-- he might be more amenable then..."

Lily's brow furrows and she looks irritated and annoyed with me. " _Duh_ ," she says, her mouth hanging open. "That's exactly what he  _wants_  me to do."

 

 

 

Gavin's arms are folded and he looks stiff and irritated when Lily escorts him into my office. She gives me the sort of look one parent gives another when they're handing over an over-tired toddler to the other-- the metaphor makes me blink as I guiltily remember that I  _still_  haven't called Liz back; at least, I haven't gotten in contact with  _her_ \-- and a moment later I'm facing Gavin who looks haughty and irritated with me.

"Hello, doctor," he says evenly, those pale blue eyes blinking at me behind the lenses of his brand new, industrial strength prison-issue spectacles. They make his face look harder and uglier; the almost vaguely pretty softness has gone from him with the loss of the glasses and now this. He's unhappy, and he's terrifying; this is the kind of violence a man can use where he doesn't need to lift a finger, the sort of dark suspense where not knowing is worse than knowing, where it leaves a space for your imagination to conjure up  _the worst it can_ , or it realises that no matter what it can create, there is always going to be something worse lying in wait. 

That's what Gavin's anger is like, I'm realising; it's not an immediate kneejerk reaction, visible and painful until the injury heals; it's the worst kind of suspense and subtle damage imaginable. He doesn't need to threaten Lily with assault; he's already twisting her around, and she's  _aware_  of it.

Ever so briefly, staring into those alert and unimpressed eyes, I wonder what it was like for his assistants. I wonder what it was like for Phoenix Wright. It's almost amusing, recalling that Miles Edgeworth, terrified of life and nursing his own wounds, stood up to that face, possibly only partially aware of the control Gavin had.

I need to talk to Lauryn, I find myself thinking vaguely.

Gavin exhales and glares at me. "I'm not very happy with you," he says in monotone, looking unimpressed. I wonder if he spoke to Apollo Justice like that, if it shattered and shook the poor kid. I'm momentarily sickened.

I'm not going to be controlled by him and his rage.

"So you're back on the unit," I say quietly. My gaze falls onto the desk, and I find myself mentally praying that he won't grab Anna's ornament and throw it at me. I need to rethink my office decoration for security measures once he's out of here.

"Yes," he says tightly. 

"And how is that?"

"I have reason to believe," he says, "That the room-sharing arrangements are designed to be permanent?"

"You'll have to discuss this with your case worker."

"I do not wish to speak with that woman." It's so cold and dismissive that I find myself wondering if he's like so many others here, if he hates women-- more than he hates the rest of humanity; if his attraction to men is because he sees women as weaker, lesser beings and-- 

"Why do you hate Lily?"

He seems to have a good relationship with Belle Grave.

"Because I cannot trust her." There's a flash in his eyes again. "She  _pleads_  with me for some involvement," he says nastily, "As though she's going to  _fix me_ , to be my saviour, to  _right_  me-- and yet she offers nothing more than words and ridiculous suggestions that all will be right if I just trust her." He blinks. "Surely you understand the economics of this place," he says. "Men are not bought and sold with words alone." He touches the frame of his glasses as though considering what they cost Engarde.

"At least you have your vision back."

He smiles slightly, sarcastic. "I may be able to see more clearly, but I can see what's happening here," he says. "I never lost that. And I am aware that the vast majority of you couldn't care less about the welfare of any of us." His voice drops and he looks at me, defiant. "I'm starting to question the worth of these therapy sessions, doctor, and what pawn I am in your game here."

"What do you mean by that?"

"I have value to you, don't I, doctor?" His words are cotton, soft and subtle and sweet, with a slightly fibrous, uncomfortable after-effect. "I'd like to know what you wish to utilise me for. What Lily wants me for."

And that's when I wonder how much is the truth and how much is just his worldview tainting his vision.

 

"We're here to help you, Mr. Gavin."

He laughs unexpectedly. "Please don't patronise me," he says, tilting his head slightly and brushing his fringe out of his eyes. "I realise that there are changes in the air around here."

"Changes?" 

"I'm aware that Miss Grave is already planning for her retirement," he says. "She knows she's out. She has the look on her face which used to be all too familiar around here when dying at the hands of the state was still perfectly feasible." Is he upset about Belle's welfare or is he upset about the change in his routine? "I've already been advised that perhaps I should consider other working arrangements."

"And what do you think of that?"

"They wish for me to work in the  _morgue_ ," he says darkly. "What do  _you_  think of that, doctor?"

"I think it might be a suitable working arrangement for you," I tell him. "It wouldn't require much in the way of dealing with other people, it would keep you away from inmates who've been known to target you, there's a lot of paperwork involved, which you seem to be good at, and I've heard that Rick likes to play classical music in the offices."

He still doesn't look impressed, though something in him notices the final up-side mentioned. "I was a  _lawyer_ ," he says in a low hiss. "And I'm being expected to become intimately acquainted with dead bodies now."

I nod. "There will probably be more paper work than dead bodies."

"You hope," he says coldly.

"Do you have designs on anyone?"

Instead of the laugh I'm expecting to hear, he glares at me coldly. "How would it feel--" he ass smoothly, "If something horrible and unstoppable were to happen to either-- your child or your wife?" Ex- _wife_ \-- "And you were left sifting through the ashes, faced with the very literal results of their deaths?"

I stop, looking at him. Behind hatred is fear for many people.

"Are you concerned about someone's safety?"

I can practically hear Lily's  _Duh_  in the back of my mind.

"Since I've returned to the unit, I've heard things," he says. "They're vague whispers-- the story gets changed-- but when even someone like Moreau is aware that Engarde is going to die when he's returned to the unit-- I'm concerned." Another pause, and the voice intensifies. "And I'm wondering if this just another ploy from the administration to control me and damage me; if by sacrificing Engarde it will be hoped that I fall into line and break under the fear and pressure." 

"You're worried about Engarde, aren't you?"

He depersonalises the other man's significance, he turns it into a mindgame, reduces the impact of what Engarde's death would really mean by talking about it only in relation to him and some greater plan.

"I shouldn't think Engarde needs to die for you or anyone else to test that hypothesis."

"We already have plans in place for when Engarde returns to the unit," I tell him. 

"He needs to be in protective custody while Daryan Crescend and Peder Behr are on the unit with him."

I'm surprised by that statement, and the look on my face must indicate that.

"Do you think Crescend harbours no ill-will towards me?" he asks.

"I didn't think he had a problem with Engarde."

"He doesn't. It's not personal." He flicks his hair out of his face again. "But Crescend has  _had a problem with me_  since he was a gangly, acne-faced teenager with his first six-string and caught between wanting to be a rock star and wanting to fight for justice." He chuckles as though remembering something fondly.

"It's not mentioned on your record that Crescend and you do not get along."

He should be rolling his eyes with the exasperated look he's giving me then. "It also never was on the record that I had various interactions with Klavier," he says casually. "I think he kept quiet about that because he didn't think it was his place to talk about it, or because he's plotting some elaborate revenge scheme, and I never said anything because it seemed trivial."

"If someone wants to kill you, it's not--"

He shrugs, still looking unimpressed. "I don't particularly wish to discuss that matter," he says. "But I do wish to inform you that Engarde is at risk while Crescend is on the unit-- he's already getting in with Gant and his friends, and Gant is too smart to do anything himself."

 

He smiles and folds his hands. "I know how men like Gant work," he says. "He's a manipulator-- he observes and reacts accordingly. He knows how to inspire and motivate men into performing for him-- I can imagine it worked effectively and he was an excellent boss in his professional environment." He smiles again, though this time there's something definitely sinister there. "There are men who will, at heart, remain what they  _are_ , no matter how much the world changes around them," he continues. "Gant is one such man; Gant understands power, in the way that Moreau understands technology and that I understand the law. We know systems, we know who we are, we know our strengths and limitations." Another smile. 

"It's a shame Gant and I never got along," he says, and there's another laugh in his voice. "Perhaps it's a shame that he saw what he thought was a pretty face and decided to underestimate me."

I'm privately thinking that if Gant and Gavin had become friends, one of two things would have resulted: the prison literally  _would_  have been controlled by the inmates, or Rick would have been much busier in the morgue.

I don't want to entertain this discussion. 

"So why would Gant be concerned with Engarde?"

"Because Engarde left him," he says simply. "Because losing Engarde and never gaining  _me_  was leaving him open to lose status and followers. He needs to show everyone he's got Engarde, and by association,  _myself_ \-- under his thumb or else Wellington and Behr and Tigre might depart him." And then the smile turns to a sharpened, deathly blade. "At heart, he's just an old man who wants out of this nightmare, a silly old eccentric who just wishes to spend his twilight years sipping mai tais poolside and basking in the attention of adoring young nubile things." He chuckles to himself and I change the subject.

"What were your retirement dreams?" I ask him. We've never talked about ageing. It makes sense; Gavin was sentenced to death. Old age wasn't a consideration-- and while he seemed blase about discussing the means of his own execution, the idea of ageing makes him flinch.

"I never gave it consideration," he says. "I never really wished to grow old." There's an uncomfortable flicker on his face and he touches his glasses again. "And yet this place has aged me prematurely."

"How has it done that?" 

He gives me another withering glare as if to say  _look at me_ \-- and then opens his mouth. "I suppose the deprivation of a normal life has caused me stress," he says. "Time and the world around me is suspended, everything is routine, the same day after another-- it's being caught in an eternal loop of groundhog day, only there's nothing new to learn within the confines of these walls, it's repeating the same thing over and over again, to no end. Except death." He pauses dramatically. "And that is stressful. And stress ages people." 

I eye him carefully.

"I'm not at all suicidal," he says. "Since my sentence was overturned, I feel as though I have things to live for-- perhaps they keep me young?" Another smile, not impish and evil or calculating and cruel, but soft, demure, and strangely normal. Peaceful.

I can imagine being a young Apollo Justice and being smiled at like that. I can unfortunately see the slivers of normal like this peeping through, and the appeal of the man. 

"And those things are...?"

"I suppose my benchmarks for pleasure have been changed," he says with a slight smirk. "I remember attending a meditation workshop many months ago one weekend when I was bored-- I suppose the little things are the things that matter: learning things, discovering things-- literature, music, poetry, organisations-- human elements." He smiles at me again, as though daring me to ask for clarification. When I don't, the smirk deepens. "There is, as you probably already have realised for me-- a deep satisfaction in making other people  _do things_."

There. Freezeframe. Caught. He's admitted it, so comfortably and so quietly, and so smugly; his narcissism's worked against him. Maybe he realises it at that moment and is effecting a poker face; maybe he just doesn't care any more.

"What do you mean,  _things_?"

 

He chuckles. "I suppose I've learned that the world is a microcosm of the one outside," he says. "With similar rules and goals and principles-- it's just another system and ultimately, it can be shaped and influenced as the one outside can." He rests his hands on his lap and looks at me. "Perhaps it took me some time to adjust to this and realise that, and perhaps when my life seemed to be rapidly coming to an end, it seemed pointless to consider the rules of the world." He smiles. "For a few weeks, I came to understand anomie as I never thought I would."

I nod, unsure about what to say to him, and not wishing for him to dominate the subject and push us off into that place we go where we idly discuss philosophy and make everything abstract, so I change the subject.

"I'd like for you to attempt some communication with Lily," I tell him. "If there is something about her which you're finding difficult to work with..." Maybe I can play mediator here. Perhaps there  _is_ something about her manner which bothers him, perhaps I could carefully have a quiet word with her-- 

"If she-- or anyone  _else_  wishes for me to trust her, I suppose I need a reason to," he says. "And perhaps she needs to know that."

"You certainly trusted me reasonably quickly." I offer him a vague smile.

"You are a person of intellect and learning," he says and I'm not sure if it's meant to be a compliment or not.

"Was Engarde?" I smile at him a bit more. We're playing that push-and-pull argument game where we out-logic one another and this time, he's going to reluctantly see my point. Hopefully. It needs to be _logical_  to trust Lily before he does, and I have a sneaking suspicion that Lily's the type of worker who won't budge first lest she look like a pushover who needs to resort of bribes.

Just like he won't trust without reason, she won't offer positive reinforcement which hasn't been earned. Both of them have reputations to preserve here, and they're both stubborn and they've worked around people long enough to understand mind games.

I stop comparing them when he opens his mouth and replies.

"Engarde and I tried to kill one another when we were first introduced," he says, with a pleased smile, reminiscent and cheerful. "It was the thing which seems to set off red flags and duress alarms for the staff which likely saved his life and allowed us to have a deeper and more fulfilling relationship."

Do I want to hear this? I don't want to hear this. 

I'm going to hear this. 

"What was that?"

"I didn't expect his body to react the way it did when my hands were around his neck, my fingernails digging into that thin skin near his throat-- I expected him to be terrified." He rubs his hands together, his fingers touching at the tips, thoughtful as though he's reflecting upon what those fingers have done.

 

"He wasn't, and that was probably his saving grace at the time because it was significant distraction for me."

"And now..."

"I enjoy Engarde's company," he says airily-- "He's actually a lot smarter than most seem to assume." He's smiling again, looking at me intently. "Please don't tell me you've seen that he's damaged and has movie star looks and some psychiatric issues and you believe this somehow suggests that he's got cognitive malfunctions?" His voice has changed, he's snide-- as though he's waiting for me to stumble my way out of excusing myself for thinking that about Engarde.

"I don't," I tell him, nodding. Others do; Gavin's correct. A lot of the staff think logic overrides everything, and that everyone's logic operates the same way-- that someone should realise that there's no point in becoming violent or fighting when cornered or attacking other people-- that if anyone  _were_  to do such a thing, it's indicative of a lack of intelligence.

You become used to it. Most of them have limited understanding and little to no training in mental health issues. It's management, they perform, not psychology.

"Well thankyou," he says softly. I can see his eyes look at the clock; he's aware the session is nearly finished. He can't say too much more; it's his wind down time before the knock on the door.

"Thankyou for what?"

 

"For looking beyond the external and still viewing us as human beings," he says seriously. "It's a rare kindness and dignity in a place like this, and I'm lucky to be in your hands."

I don't know what to say to this. The way he says it, with that strangely coy smile makes me uncomfortable; was there sexual innuendo in there?-- there's the flash of the increasingly disturbing nightmares I've been having about him in the back of my head, and there's the way he's looking at me, trying to read me or waiting for a response or something, and then something occurs to me.

He's terrified. He knows what's happened to Engarde being injected with tranquilizers after my session with him: is he scared of me, of chemical intervention, or of being a bad boy and losing me and falling into Smeer's less-careful hands?

Or am I reading too much into this? Is this genuine like from Kristoph Gavin?

Granted, he's disturbingly good at manipulating people with flattery and compliments, he's most likely a sociopath, and he's perfected his art as he seemed to have perfected everything else he did in his previous life.

But I wonder, as there's the knock on the door and Lily comes to collect him-- and he offers that smile as though he's going to  _try_  at least with Lily-- and I give him an encouraging nod-- if he understands that behind every liar's facade, there needs to be some truth mingled in. 

A sixty-forty mix, one con-man told me, thin the truth out too much and people don't buy it: you need to fill them up on the staple of truth and sneak the lies into the mix, waiting to be devoured with the rest of it.

I wonder if Gavin knows that as well as any conman.

And I wonder, as he walks in front of Lily; nearly a foot taller than her and yet docile and well-behaved-- whether the truth-lies formula with him isn't just about the quantites used but the ingredients.

Perhaps, underneath all of his shenanigans, he actually does trust and appreciate me.

And perhaps that's something I can use to both our advantages.

 

 

 

 

Liz isn't answering when I try her phone. 

I get the cheerful message, to leave a message and callback details, and I do that, trying not to sound alarmed, my voice as falsely perky as hers, wondering, for maybe the millionth time, what she wants to discuss with me.

Perhaps it's Anna. Perhaps she thinks I need to pay more child support; I'm happy to-- the relationship didn't end with bad blood and a fight; it dispersed into thin air, a mist we'd been expecting-- Eliot's  _Not with a bang but a whimper._

 _This is the way the world ends._

  
In the prison, it's rare to get that. Things don't end with a whimper in most cases, there's no calm resignation before a plan is abandoned and things return to normal: people  _fight_. In a place where all men have is who they are and a few meager possessions, a change in the pecking order, a cigarette-- it can all be reason for chaos and bloodshed. 

And that goes for the staff, too. Power fuels the place, everyone hungers for their own little piece of identity and position. But these can become liabilities as much as status-- if you have something, someone else wants it. The enviable positions are the defining ones that no one wants, the ones where there's the veil of protection. White had such a position until it became apparent that Gant wasn't really a friend. Wellington, ironically, the prison's unofficial jester-- has such a position. 

It hardly seems strange that Wellington, beneath the come-hither smile and the lewd suggestion of sexual favours and what he's done and what he can offer-- holds a position of safety-- when you view it that way.

I thought my own position was a safe one; I was respected, my run-ins with violent inmates were few-- but thinking of Smeer and his impersonal manner and rising status bothers me. Smeer is more economical and no-nonsense; on paper, he appears sensible. 

In the longterm, though, he's just another condition to rally against should there be the consideration of a riot amongst the prison population. I'm bothered by the fact that he sees a need for chemical intervention before--

Liz is still not answering. I dial Lauryn's number.

  
I'm almost surprised when she picks up, but I'm pleased to hear her voice, and pleased that she sounds somewhat upbeat. 

"I've got good news," she says, before there's a chance for formal greetings-- "Guess who's going home next week?"

"Hello to you too."

She chuckles. "Look," she says, "It's not every day I get to be excited for one of my clients." 

"I know how that feels."

"I'm sure you do."

Taking the phone with me, I seat myself on the sofa and wait for her to continue. "So what's happening in your world?" she asks. "Before I start unintentionally telling you things I probably shouldn't about mine?"

"I had a cup of chocolate milk thrown at me the other day."

" _Fun_. What did you do to deserve that?" 

"Talked to a client who wants to be in solitary confinement or out of the hospital unit." There's a brief silence and I realise that I don't really want to get into the situation with Engarde with Lauryn; explaining the unnerving staff politics behind everything sounds about as fun and as interesting as a root canal. "So tell me about Herr Rockstar."

"He's going back to his apartment with a live-in carer for awhile," she says. "It must be costing him an arm and a leg, but he's decided he can't stay in the hospital forever-- I've been calling in to help with transition and I'll be seeing him at home." There's uncertainty in her voice. 

"Do you think he's  _ready_?"

"My personal opinion doesn't matter, but  _he_  does." And she sighs. "Which is a better sign than hearing him talk fondly about suicide.  _Professionally_ \-- he's got the supports set up and it's looking promising."

"Mmm."

 

"I think he'll be okay," she says. "It's going to be intense, but... he's changed again. He seems to have this  _will_  to keep going which wasn't there before; this  _drive_." She pauses again before continuing. "I guess we have one of your guys to thank for some of that, I suppose."

And my heart stops; I'm worried that Gavin's somehow gotten to him again, that he's reeling him in and messing with his head some more, that he's being picked up only to be dropped from a height which he isn't aware of.

"I've never met him in the flesh, but I could honestly  _hug_  Daryan Crescend," she tells me. 

"He's..." I don't know what to say. Surly. Arrogant. Unconcerned. Uncouth.

"...been writing to him," she finishes. "I haven't seen the letters, but they've been coming in to him almost daily-- apparently he's getting back into song writing, they've made amends-- Daryan's been there for him in writing if not anything else." She sounds as surprised as I am, but please.

"What about the lawyers?" 

"Oh... um..." And she stops herself uneasily. "They're having a few problems right now."

"I see."

"The thing with Redd White," she says in an undertone-- "It ate away at them-- it was probably the final straw." She sighs, and I wait for her to finish what she's saying. "One's been looking for work interstate and the other is talking about moving overseas." Another pause, and I remember Wright and Edgeworth walking through the hospital wing, I remember Edgeworth dilligently waiting in the carpark. "I guess the difference of what Redd White meant to each of them was too much of a difference." She sighs again. "I'm going to miss them."

I don't know what to say. Of course we're meant to lose clients, they're meant to not need us any more, but Lauryn sounds defeated when she mentions them, defeated but resigned. "They haven't really had time to focus on Klavier-- they've been too busy with their own problems."

"And Apollo?"

"Oh, god." She sounds horrified. "He's been--"

I don't know what to say. 

Fortunately, I don't have to say anything.

"He's determined to fix everything. As usual."

"Apparently he's down to visit my client."

"Mmm-hmm." I can practically  _see_  her nodding. "I've advised against it, but a tentative date, conditional on prison conditions, has been set for next week."

"Okay." I don't know why she's so concerned. But maybe I wasn't far off the mark when I suspected that Gavin was playing mind games with someone from the outside.

"I've advised him not to go, as best I can-- we talked about the possible outcomes-- I've told him to prepare himself for the Kristoph Gavin he remembers to be someone different now, but--"

There's only so much you can do. 

"I've got a question for you," she says bluntly. "Honestly-- unprofessional as this is-- what sort of person  _is_  he?" Her voice is rising slightly, with something akin to crossing-the-line-of-professionalism concern. "What would  _you_  say about him, if you had to sum him up in one word-- if you had to make some sort of judgement call about him-- is he--?"

 _Human_? I'm expecting to hear. Subjective and emotionally-driven and unscientific as it sounds, I'm waiting for the crack in her role; she's been involved on the other side of this mess, deeper and worse than I have been, in many ways.  _Tranference_ , I think, most professionals loathe it, Lauryn always seemed aware of it and removed from it, yet able to demonstrate concern. And yet here she is, asking me what I think of Gavin. Not a professional opinion, but a personal one.

"He's manipulative," I tell her. 

But Apollo Justice was aware of that, wasn't he?

 

It's nice to see Lily in a good mood. 

Lily, hard-faced and hard-assed, Lily who doesn't bend an inch or take shit from anyone, is smiling when I see her; she's made progress with him-- I can tell that much before either of us say two words to one another.

"Things picking up around here?" I ask her.

"I haven't gotten him into doing a skit for the variety show, but he's talking to me," she says. "All it took was a bottle of nail polish--"

My mouth hangs open.

"I cleared it with management," she says. "He gets to use it, supervised-- and it's handed back afterwards-- in the assessment room. So far it's been motivational-- he'll sit there painting his nails and talking to me." She's still smiling.

"You went and bought a bottle of Aridonay nail polish for him?" I ask her, looking down at her own bitten-down nails which have probably seen about as much nail enamel as mine have.

She nods. "I don't plan on  _continuing_  this, but it's a start," she says. "And today he's got his visit happening, and--"

My stomach lurches at the mention of the visit and the memory of Lauryn's apprehension about it.

"Apollo Justice?" I ask.

"That's the one. His assistant." As though I need to be told. I wonder if Lily knew as much as I do about their relationship.

I don't want to ruin her moment of pride: she has the sort of job which has a frustration attached to it which I can empathise with. Lily isn't just here to open literal doors-- I've seen her concern for her charges even if she hasn't. This is the woman, I find myself remembering, who was crying over White's death and who seemed to genuinely like him.

I start wondering if she requested Gavin's case because she didn't want to  _dis_ like him if she suspected his involvement in White's death. Because to dislike him would be unprofesssional. Perhaps she took on the case because she knew she could never like and forgive him, being Gavin's caseworker would mean having a client she would never get that close to and come to care about, perhaps.

If that's the case, I'm concerned for her, because the grin on her face suggests she's pleased. 

"I've  _cracked him_ ," she says, satisfied. "You were right-- all it took was a bottle of-- okay, ridiculously expensive-- nail polish-- and he's opening up to me."

"Did he tell you much about Justice?" I can't help but ask wryly.

Her face tinges pink with the hint of a blush underneath her peachy clay foundation. "Did he tell  _you_  much about Justice?" she asks me.

"A little bit."

She smirks slightly. "The Cinderella sugar daddy," she says. "I almost feel sorry for him, in a way-- he appeared to genuinely like the kid."

"He saw promise in him, yes."  _Promise for what?_  I'm still wondering.

"And then he was-- well, what happened, did." She looks uncomfortable. "Not that it shouldn't have and not that Justice did the wrong thing, but--" And the look on her face changes again to something slightly guilty. "He's asked for you to be there at the meeting."

 _Why_?

"I don't know when it is."

"Two o'clock," she says. "And I ran it by Parke, who said that was fine as long as you weren't busy--"

I wasn't planning on being busy because that was  _meant_  to be my lunch hour. But the thought of having an angry Gavin-- as well as Parke and Lily's wrath-- because I'd caused him to shut down again- as well as my own morbid curiousity about Justice-- makes me nod instead. "I should be able to fit it in."

" _Thankyou_ ," she says, relieved, the smile on her face only growing even wider. 

"I don't usually do this, though," I say quietly. "Normally I only attend visits when it's been scheduled in advance and there's a need for me to be there."

 

She nods, and the look on her face changes. "I realise that you're doing me a huge favour," she tells me seriously-- "and I appreciate it-- by doing this, you've shown him that I can come through for him, in a way, right?" She smiles again. "Perhaps he might start talking to me a bit more and freeing up your time."

I tense at that comment, wondering if she's somehow part of what looks like a conspiracy. A few years ago, there was concern that specialists were too expensive for the prison to fund, and that workers could pick up some of their duties informally. Of course, it didn't work very well with the teachers, but this--

"Hey Lily?" My heart's racing. I don't want to ask her, because it's none of my business, because I'm showing her my fear and concerns, and because saying something could potentially bite me later on. And because perhaps, if she answers truthfully, I'm not going to like the answer.

But I can't stop myself.

"Yeah?" 

She's distracted by her satisfaction.

"Have you noticed some changes happening around here in regards to staffing?" It's such a vague and awkward question, I'm fourteen years old again and trying to ask Adele Aid out to the school dance. I can feel my cheeks flush, but this isn't some silly teenage rite of passage, this is professional humiliation, something I have't felt in years.

"Yeah," she says slowly, looking at me carefully. "And I don't like 'em, either." The consideration turns to anger. "I don't know the full story, but I don't trust people 'round here even more than I usually don't," she says. "And it looks like there's going to be some policy changes." She stops herslf for a second, and then decides to continue. "How do  _you_  feel about the whole medicate first, ask questions later thing?"

"I wasn't the one who authorised the Straphalazine for Engarde," I tell her slowly. 

"You've never operated that way before," she says cryptically.

"Engarde isn't psychotic-- the only time he's had psychotic episodes was when they were drug-induced, and putting something like straph into him when he's already under the influence of unknown concentrations of unknown substances doesn't gel well with me."

"So you don't approve of what happened?"

"No." 

"I think Smeer was influenced," she says softly. "This place is changing: it's like certain people want the media-friendly things like the pool coming back and the healthy eating program and the mediations and that shit-- but they want to cut corners elsewhere." She rubs her chin thoughtfully. "Everything's gone into damage control after what happened in the Gavin visit."

I nod. "I realise that."

She looks at me intently then, sizing me up. "I didn't  _think_  you were behind it," she says, "but no one can be too sure of anything around here lately."

"I've never advocated chemical management as an initial response," I tell her seriously, "Especially not without consultation with the client concerned, and particularly not when a client shows no sign of needing chemical intervention."

She nods, and there's a glimmer in her eyes and agreement in her voice. "Me neither," she says with a nod that lets me read between the lines and see that we're on the same page.

 

 

 

I'm drinking coffee to pull through the absence of a lunchtime meal break. Caffeine stimulates me and makes me forget my hunger; it allows me to distract myself.

I try ringing Liz again-- I get her message bank and hang up; I shouldn't be calling her from work any way and if she were to ring back when I'm otherwise occupied... 

I shouldn't be playing with matches. If my job really is on the line, if I'm being pushed out and replaced by the more economically viable and inexperienced but effective Smeer, the last thing I need to be doing is making unauthorised phone calls which probably are audited by the prison.

There are cameras on the unit, they stare us down from every corridor, over every shared space. 

It's not just the inmates who don't have any privacy here. 

  


 

 

When Tom Moreau shows up for his one o'clock, I'm bright-eyed and grateful for the distraction. Moreau  _was_  scheduled in for monthly checkups due to the nature of his offending, but due to time and budgetry constraints, and the fact that Moreau seemed to lay low anyway, the monthly check-ins somehow turned into reports submitted by his caseworker instead. 

Diagnosed with Aspergers' Syndrome as a child, and having an IQ which easily places him in the top percentile of the prison population, Moreau is relatively easy to deal with, and has generally been mild-mannered and trouble-free. In hindsight, the suggestion of monthly sessions was overkill. No anger problems. No psychiatric history. No need for medication. Has a parole hearing coming up soon.

The problems don't stem with him-- the problems flare up when Moreau is around technology. When he was a twelve-year-old playing pranks with phone lines and people's computers, it was cute and brilliant. When he was twenty-six and hacking into systems for business purposes, it wasn't so cute. When he was fired from a swanky software development company, he went into business for himself. He tinkered on the side for his own amusement.

He's serving twelve years for involvement in a mob killing, and on the occasion that I met him, he seemed genuinely remorseful regarding his involvement. Since his imprisonment, he's been the model prisoner-- his only major restrictions involve keeping him away from computers.

  
So Moreau, with his completely unstereotypical appearance-- his long, beach-bum hair and crooked nose and lack of facial hair or glasses-- or anything else suggesting he's a computer nerd-- decided to learn about electricity in lieu of computer systems.

And whatever he wanted to see me about, whyever the appointment was made for him-- has been forgotten.

"Did you know that they're replacing the electrical system in our unit?" he asks. A light dances in his eyes and he looks excited; the way the man with bloodlust looks when a fight breaks out, the way Crescend looked for that second, talking about his guitar, the way that a surly and hardened officer looks when their man has slipped on his own lies and implicated himself somehow.

"No, I didn't, Mr. Moreau."

"I saw the workmen," he says. "I asked if that was one of the new generation systems, they're commonly installed in communal and government facilities-- they've only started using them in this state since 2020. But because of the initial cost, many are reluctant to install them even though--"

"Mr. Moreau." I sit forward in my chair and lean on my desk slightly. "Let's talk about what's going on around here."

His face scrunches up and he looks irritated. "I'm trying to do that," he says. "Many of the newer systems, especially those installed in areas where public safety is of concern, have a--"

"I mean for  _you_." I wish I could feel worse about cutting him off like that. But my interest in what bells and whistles the prison is spending its money on lately doesn't hold professional interest the way Moreau's life does.

 

He looks taken aback and his mouth opens slightly as if to protest.

"How are you finding sharing a cell once again?"

"I shared with Armando for a bit," he says, "While he was in. The two of us talked about his visor design and I was wondering if he'd instead used blue lighting, perhaps some of his troubles may have been avert--"

"So you and Mr. Gavin don't talk about electronics?" I ask.

I'm tense and irritated; in the back of my mind is the idea that I'm going to be dealing with Apollo Justice visiting, something else I've been wrangled into doing; I'm concerned that Moreau's naivete could possibly be exploited by Gavin in some fashion and I'm not sure why.

"No," he says. "Gavin keeps to himself. He reads a lot." He leans in towards me, straggly strands of dirty-blonde hair falling into his eyes. He lacks Gavin's self-conscious awareness of his appearance; there's something gangly and overgrown about him; he's a Labrador puppy who doesn't quite realise his own space.

"But I guess he's worried," he says. "I think everyone knows that stuff about how Wellington and Behr are going to kill Engarde in front of him when he's released into the unit. And I know he and Engarde are friends."  _Friends_. 

He blinks casually, as though he's just described what was on the breakfast menu. 

There's sickening shock at his words from me. "How do you know that?"

" _Everyone_  knows," he says with a shrug. "Tim Plan was talking to Callander about it. Which is probably going to put Plan in a difficult position if Behr finds out, isn't it?"

"How do you feel about it?"

"I don't like violence," he says. There's a whimper in his voice, childlike and nervous, and automatically shut down with his next statement. "But I'm used to it. Everyone gets used to it, don't they?" Leaning back, and casting a wayward glance towards my computer, he changes the subject. "They won't let me touch computers here," he says, noticing that I've noticed him looking. "Which is why I've been reading up on electronics." 

"And you're working on the--" I shuffle through the papers in front of me-- "on the floor right now: general maintenance?"

"I mop," he says. "Which sounds dismal, but I can't get to do anything I'm good at thanks to that court order." There's a mild flash of anger in his voice. "I suppose Gavin's like me like that: he doesn't get to be a lawyer any more so he reads."

 _But Gavin gets to indulge in his interest_ , I think to myself.  _And you_ \--

"I talk to the electricians when we get them in," he says. "I actually pointed out a mistake they made when they were installing the wiring in the corridor outside the offices." He smiles then, proud of himself. "I don't know if they're terribly knowledgeable about the GERA system, though." He shakes his head. 

 _GERA system?_  I'm not terribly knowledgeable about it either, and the look on my face must suggest as much.

"The General Electrical Response Automation system," he tells me. "It's meant to override itself with an alternate power source if something's compromised the electricity to one of the sources. Previously, the system we had in place was outdated and failed on a number of occasions, which was why they chose to replace it while the renovations were being done on the solitary cells." He nods. "They were meant to re-do the sprinklers, too, but I heard somewhere that the budget didn't stretch that far."

 

He nods again, looking like a schoolboy who's just answered a question correctly.

"So how are you  _feeling_?" I ask him.

"Pretty good," he says, and there's an almost enthusiastic bouncing motion in the way he's sitting. "I've got parole in six weeks, and my lawyer contacted me yesterday and said that it's looking good for me."

"Six weeks," I say with a smile. "So you'll still be with us for the variety show."

He doesn't look amused. He looks  _blank_. "I don't have any talents I can share with the rest of the prison population," he says. "Not on the stage, anyway."

I wonder if he's planning on pulling some other audience-grabbing stunt  _during_  the show. But that would be underhanded and senselessly destructive. And Moreau's activity is more exploratory and curious. I flip through the file again. His involvement with the murder which landed him in here was minimal; he had concealed evidence and from the looks of things, and had been manipulated into towing someone else's line. 

"Have you talked to education and activities?"

"No," he says. "I'm more than happy to watch the others perform, but I have no interest in doing so myself." He smiles slightly and shrugs. "I'm actually a bit annoyed with the fact that we have to see the show: it means the electricians won't be working that day."

A darker thought has just occurred to me.

"You're not considering escape, are you?"

"No," he says matter-of-factly. "That would be pointless-- I have six weeks left and an escape would probably mean extra time on top of my sentence, and then there's the fact that I'm unfamiliar with the security systems in place here, and I'd suspect that they operate off a completely different power source anyway given the size of the prison and the amount of electricity relied upon for the electronic locking mechanisms on the doors." He's gone into expert mode. "Apparently the whole system was reevaluated and changed following the riot, because when inmates got at the control panels, they found they could open doors at will and--"

I nod. "I'm pleased to hear that you're not planning on doing anything rash."

He nods enthusiastically. Sure, he's a little  _odd_ , but there seems to be no pressing need for him to talk to me. I didn't even have time to check why he'd been booked in--  _Maybe deNong's suspicions are correct about your ability to get your job done_ \-- and he seems upbeat though reluctant to accidentally divulge anything to me about the reason behind his visit.

"How are you feeling about the possibility of parole?" I'm concerned and interested, attentive and kind.

"Good," he says. "A bit nervous; they're probably going to slap some sort of condition on me saying that I have to stay away from computers-- and in this day and age, and for me, that's like telling someone they can't  _eat_." He looks around. "It'll be good, though, getting out, I guess." He rubs the back of his neck. "I've never done this before."

It's surprising and refreshing, for once, to see what appears to be genuine unfettered naivete. Tom Moreau appears to be an exception rather than the rule when it comes to the effects of life in prison.

He also appears to be untwisted by Gavin, which is a relief.

I glance at the watch on my wrist, not sure whether I want time suspended, to keep on interrupting Moreau's sidesteps into talking about prison electrical systems, or to be free of this conversation, and dealing with the visit. 

Whatever I want, though, the reality is still the same; time ticks away. 

When Moreau is escorted from the room, I'm feeling guilty; I wasn't giving him my full attention, I was distracted by the upcoming visit, by Lily's ploys to gain Gavin's trust, by seeing  _Matt Engarde_ walking past the perspex window and peep in on his way back from the clinic-- and I find myself thinking, when I'm alone in my space, that maybe this job really belongs to someone green and alive and untainted like Will Smeer instead of me. 

I walk to the visitors' room, apprehensive.


	16. Quiet Agony

Engarde spies me from across the floor, a wary look on his face as I head towards the doors leading to the visitors' lobby. He doesn't say anything, but the disgust on his face, the sharp, brutal glare in his eyes, and the haughty way he stands there for a moment, regarding me and watching me, as though he's been deliberately  _waiting_  and wanting me to see that one expression-- spells out one clear thing: he's feeling betrayed.

 _Great_. I now have that to consider.

I walk quickly, trying not to think about Engarde, concentrating, instead, on the visit ahead of me.

  
Apollo Justice looks nervous in that way where he might have arrived early and been drinking lots of coffee whilst waiting for the time to move past so he could see Gavin. He's obviously not seen the inside of a prison before; the background noises we get used to in here make him twitch and look around, his gaze shifts towards other people moving about the centre, everything is new and real and  _interesting_. And scary; I wonder what's racing through his head--  _How does Gavin live here? How would_ I _deal with living here?_ \-- and he smiles a little too much at me as I offer a hand and introduce myself. A few seats down, and further back, sits Lily, watching the room like a mother in a playground, keeping a distracted distance but an eye on her charge in case there should be some sort of problem.

Gavin is sitting a short distance from us, and he smiles when he sees me sit down. I watch Justice's face watching mine, trying to figure me out.

"This is a no contact visit," Lily says in monotone-- "So, Mr. Justice-- if you're unfamiliar with prison protocol, this means that you need to be seated away from Mr. Gavin, and you need to keep your hands and feet visible at all times..."

The younger man nods, taking in her words, and glancing at Gavin uncertainly. "And I can't touch him?"

Gavin smiles slightly. Lily nods.

"As you're probably aware, we've had some recent security concerns, though if this visit is successful and Mr. Gavin works well with staff in accordance with his goals, subsequent visits may be a bit more lenient."

Justice nods again, his eyes wide and glistening. 

"I'm surprised that you wanted to see me," Gavin says quietly, his voice slightly unsettled, a slightly odd-- uncomfortable and displaced-- smirk on his face which isn't sure if it's a smirk or something else. "Though-- thankyou, I suppose."

Justice gulps, lowering his head and nodding. "I've wanted to talk to you in person for a while," he says. When he's not quite looking at Gavin, something else becomes apparent to me; his nervousness doesn't seem to be about the environment or the situation he's in but the person he's facing now; he's fumbling around, red-faced and lost for words, and his voice comes out in an embarrassed rush when he speaks.

"You have not seen me for-- well, a long time." Gavin folds his hands in his lap. "I always wondered what would become of my protege."

I watch his lip tremble slightly. "I-- I'm doing quite well for myself, Mr. Gavin." 

"Good to hear."

"And how are you?"

He looks confused for a moment, thrown off-guard in a way I haven't seen before. And there's a silence before he replies; his eyes move to Justice's arm which is tugging on his other cuff nervously.

"Alive," he says finally. "Which is probably somewhat unexpected." 

Somehow, he's managed to have the upper hand in this meeting, playing on the younger man's discomfort. He smiles easily, brushing his fringe out of his eyes. "I understand that a change in legislation arrived in the nick of time for me." Pushes his glasses up his nose, and peers at Justice. "I assume I have Prosecutor Gavin to thank for that."

"I might have helped him," Justice says nervously. He's clutching the fabric of his shirt as though hanging on for dear life.

"I must thank you, I suppose, then."

"I've always been committed to justice," he says weakly.

 

"As has  _Klavier_ , apparently." Gavin folds his arms and smirks, raising an eyebrow ever so slightly. There's a tinge of pink in his cheeks; he's pleased with himself; it's as though he's back in his role of employer and instructor. Did he enjoy making the kid squirm like this under his words in the office where they worked? 

Justice's eyes flash for a moment and he looks down at his hands helplessly. "I'm--" he starts to say, flailing uncomfortably and then looking back at his former mentor. "That was-- it wasn't my idea."

"What wasn't your idea, Justice?"

"The--" and his voice falters for a moment; he blinks, looking at him, pathetically. "The thing with Klavier-- it never happened," he says. "It-- started out as a joke--"

  
"A  _joke_?" Gavin raises his eyebrows. "I never realised you possessed such a peculiar sense of humour."

"I--"

I can see Lily looking at me, her eyes questioning. 

"I'm sorry, sir."

Drawing his own hands together into a clap, Gavin laughs. At the joke he wasn't supposed to find very funny. It's somewhat dismantling, I suppose, and Justice forces himself to look Gavin in the eyes.

"I must thank you for your efforts to change the law, I suppose," he says. "I can only imagine that had our visit been under different circumstances-- me with a needle in my arm, strapped down to a gurney-- me looking up and awaiting the hangman's noose-- me with a shroud over my head and a target pinned to my chest-- things would have been far more awkward than they are now, hmm?" His voice is butter. I can practically smell the sweat and aftershave leeching off Justice who is sitting close by; it's something light and breezy, something I'd imagine Gavin would have smelt like during his hey day, quiet and sophisticated and unobtrusive, something suggesting maturity and composure.

Something which Justice does not have right now. He's looking down at his hands again, a bead of sweat appearing at the side of his face, wrinkles on his forehead contorted, angry and confused and conflicted.

"But it would have been over for you, wouldn't it?" He smiles again, crossing his legs. "Would you have liked that, Justice? To have relegated me to the place of memories, something to hash out in therapy--" he smiles at me again, and suddenly I'm a part of this and I don't want to be a part of this-- "As I may have done about you." There's a pause. "I trusted you, Justice," he says quietly.

"I trusted  _you_." Suddenly there's been a turnabout of sorts, and Justice is looking up at him, eyes hurt and angry. "I let you take me in and educate me; I was a  _kid_  back then, I was-- I left my  _life_  in your hands." And he looks down at his own; there's a crack in his voice where tears might emerge-- "I didn't think," he says defiantly, glaring back angrily, biting his bottom lip and focusing his gaze-- "that my mentor-- the man I  _trusted--_  like you-- the man who shaped my identity like a  _parental figure_ \-- would turn out to be a murderer who  _laughed_  at everything I stood for."

This is what he wanted; mediation. Maybe that would have worked better with him than with Klavier. I suck in a gasp and something hits me then; this what Gavin's nailbomb tendency towards destruction looks like from the other side. 

"I gave you Phoenix Wright," he says quietly. "He was a learning exercise-- I never wanted to cause you hurt-- I offered him to you as I did to Klavier-- my own flesh and blood."

Justice chuckles nastily; a light, airy laugh. "Your own flesh and blood you were--" and he cuts off again, unable to bring himself to say the words. "Did you use him like you used  _me_?" he snaps. "Did you charm him and take him out to dinner and spend ridiculous amounts of money on him and tell him how to dress and--"

"I paid you what you were  _worth_." Gavin's voice is tight. 

"You preyed on the fact that I was a pathetic kid who just wanted someone to look up to," Justice snaps-- "and"-- his voice hardens, and a slight smile comes onto his face-- "you never counted on me being that good a lawyer, did you?" He blinks. "Mr. Wright did."

 

"Wright puppeteered you," Gavin says angrily. His face is still and calm but there's angry finality in his words. "You were lead down the garden path and into Wright's little scheme to--"

"To expose the truth." And that's when I realise Justice is shouting-- Lily's realised a moment before then, and she's looking anxious.

"Mr. Justice," she says calmly.

"No, no, I'm used to his volume." Gavin tosses his head casually and waves invisible hair out of his eyes. "Chords of Steel training," he says with a casual smirk, and then an intensity and depth-- and  _hunger_ comes into his voice. "And other things, if I recall correctly." He looks deliberately at Justice and for a moment I think he's going to reach out and touch him, to tilt his chin up and study his face carefully. But he doesn't. 

"You are sounding hysterical," he says. "Remember what I told you about that."

Justice nods quietly, his sudden burst of anger hidden again. 

"Why the compelling need to see me if you hate me so much?" Gavin asks. "With me serving life in prison, disgraced and disbarred and tainted, you have the perfect opportunity to leave me, as they say, to rot here, to pretend I don't exist any more-- I've been cut from your reality." There's an upwards lilt of a question in his voice. "So why did you return to me, then?"

"Because I wanted to see the truth." Justice is looking at him again, his voice hard. "Because whether or not it matters to some people, the truth-- and justice-- are important to me. Even if I don't like who I might be defending." There's bitter rage in his voice. "I want to know if all the things I've heard about you are true or not."

Gavin stands up then, and waves to Lily. 

Visiting hours are now over.

"Should it matter?" Gavin asks casually, almost amused. "This is not a professional visit, you have no reason to care." He smiles slightly, slowing his voice, looking almost wistful for a moment. "Perhaps you should keep your fond memories-- if you have any of those left, Justice-- the way they are."

Justice stands up as well. "I need the  _truth_ ," he says.

"Mr. Justice--  _Gavin_ \--" Lily's unamused and has joined them.

"Return me to my cell, please, Ms. Dale." To Kristoph Gavin, Apollo Justice has already left the room.

"I've heard things--" Justice snaps-- "I understand that you killed Drew Misham, and that you killed Zak Gramarye-- and that you tried to kill Vera Misham and that destroyed Mr. Wright's life-- and mine-- but I don't believe all the hype," he says. "I've heard more rumours about you since I stopped working for you than I did when I  _was_  working for you-- and I don't believe them all."

"Then  _don't_." Turning to walk towards the door, he casts an eye at Lily.

"I can't just convince myself of things, and I can't just follow hearsay," Justice says. "And now that everything's reduced to ash and rubble, it doesn't matter any more, so I might as well hear the truth."

"Ash and rubble?" Gavin looks amused. "How _poetic_."

But Justice isn't going to give him the satisfaction of a reply.

"I've heard that you killed Redd White," Justice continues angrily. "I've heard you were doing things to Klavier when he was too young to know any better. I've heard that you killed a wheelchair-bound inmate a a favour to corrupt prison administration so that they didn't need to put disabled access into one of the units which wasn't equipped for him. I've heard that you nearly killed another inmate here. I heard that you orchestrated the recent assault upon Klavier which another inmate willingly took the blame for." His eyes are blazing, huge and brown and too angry to be verging on tears. 

And Gavin is laughing. 

"I did  _what_?" he asks, folding his arms. 

"How much of it is true?" Justice asks, stepping towards him.

 

"How much do you trust me?" Gavin asks. "What would it give you if I denied all of it, or confessed to all of it-- or confessed to  _some_  of it? Would any of it matter to you?" He turns to Lily, looking serious, arms still folded. " _Return me to the unit, please_ ," he says a little more severely, and Lily radios up for another staff member to escort Justice out of the building.

"I don't trust you," Justice says, defiant once more, his lip trembling ever so slightly.

"Then why should you trust my answers to questions like those?" he asks.

Hamm has arrived at the door and he knocks twice before unlocking it. Gavin offers a sweet smile to him, and then a nod to Justice. "I suppose I shall bade you farewell," he says with a nod, as he silently follows Hamm out onto the unit.

Lily, Justice and I stand there, in an odd little triangular formation, looking at one another; a propless Mexican standoff. "So that's  _it_?" Justice snaps at us. "He just gets to return to the unit and go back to doing whatever he does in here?"

"'Fraid so," Lily says with a nod. "C'mon-- I'll walk you up to the gate."

 

 

 

I look at the blank screen in front of me long enough for the screensaver to come on. What should be a marquee of photographs isn't; photographs suggest a personal life, something I'm not meant to have here any more than a chair or a duress alarm does. 

Photographs suggest that I have time for a personal life, for a family, for loved ones. I don't have that, either. Instead, I'm faced with the one picture on the hard drive--  _Dysfunction: the only consistent feature in all your dissatisfying relationships is you._  I move the mouse and am confronted by the white screen where I'm meant to document my interactions with Gavin. Moreau's report is done, I'm supporting the recommendation for parole. It would be cruel and unusual to allow him to get sucked into the mess he's potentially getting into, wouldn't it?-- if he can find something to do, an obsession to replace the computers--

There's a knock on the door and I know it's going to be Lily before she unlocks it and walks into my office. I'm not sure if I want to see her or not-- perhaps this is the first time she's truly seen Gavin at his finest-- maybe she needs to debrief.

"So what are you writing about him?" she asks with a wry smile as she sits down at my desk. The heavy door closes behind her.

"Nothing, yet."

"Do you get to put the hilarious down?" she asks. "That thing about Dingle?"

  
I can't help but smile. "I was wondering where Justice heard  _that_ ," I say. "But it sounds just as ridiculous as all the rest."

Dingle was the wheelchair-bound inmate Justice had referred to, I can only assume. He'd been a model prisoner and because of his good behaviour, propensity towards victimisation, low security risk and his long sentence, had been moved to another prison, a medium-security facility interstate. The last time I saw "Acro," he'd been perfectly healthy, in good spirits, and pleased about the move. 

"The rest of it's all true, though."

And Lily blanches. "... _White_?" 

"The jury's out," I say uneasily, seeing the screensaver reappear and shaking the mouse again. "For a  _long_  time."

"Do  _you_  think he killed White?"

  
I look up at her as the screen flashes white, and I switch off the monitor, giving her my full concentration. "Both he and Gant had the perfect opportunity to do so." I rub the itchy spot that I've just realised under my left eye. "But to be honest, I've got a bigger motive for Gant."

Lily nods. "White stabbed him in the back literally and was planning to do so metaphorically," she says. "Gant was wanting him out of there for a long time; especially since his new pals have joined their ranks." She looks unimpressed. "But while Waverley's his case worker, no one can touch him." She sighs. "That was one of my reasons behind wanting to take on Gavin's case-- Gant's got Waverley, who does Gavin have?"

"And you wanted to find out if he killed Redd White, didn't you?"

Her voice is uneasy and her eyes are wide and attentive. "Yeah," she says quietly. "Because no one's really looked into it and there's insufficient evidence to pin it on either of them." She pauses. "Do you think Gant and Gavin were in cahoots?"

"No."

"Me neither, but it looks like they could have been."

"Have you talked to Gavin about Gant?"

"Yeah," she says. "He doesn't like him. Apparently there's something involving bad blood between Gant and Engarde, but not so long ago, Engarde was filling Wellington's role. And I can't work out why Gavin would just take on someone like  _him_  like that. His high-status movie star days are long-gone." 

I shrug. "They didn't always get along."

"And now they get on a little  _too_  well." Her nose wrinkles. "Something today interested me and got me thinking-- do you think Gavin took to Engarde to somehow get in with the Gant group? To bring them down from the inside?"

"If that were the case, he'd have dropped Engarde when it became apparent that Gant had cast him out, though." I pause uncomfortably. "I actually think Gavin's quite attached to him."

"I don't think he's capable of that," she says dismissively. "We both saw how he treated that kid in the visitor's room."

"Engarde hasn't betrayed him though."

"You didn't see what I did." Her face is deadpan and unimpressed. "I had to walk Justice up to the door and he started crying-- I can't deal with them when they cry-- he's coming back, though, you know?-- wants closure or something." She snorts. "Good luck getting it from him."

I watch her carefully. "So your opinion of Gavin has changed?"

"No," she says. "My understanding of him has deepened. I don't think he has feelings for Engarde because I don't think he's capable of that. You saw the way Justice was looking at him, didn't you?"

"He looked like he was still his employee and being scared of his boss."

  
Lily gives me a withering look. " _Please_ ," she says. "You were married. You have a teenage daughter-- Justice looked like a lovesick teenager when he managed to look at him."

"They did have a relationship--"

"I  _know_. And now Gavin's just playing with him. Like he'll probably do to Engarde when he finds some other inmate-- or staff member to amuse himself with."

The fact that she's mentioned  _staff_  bothers me.

"He hasn't flirted with you, has he?"

"God no. But I wouldn't put it past him-- remember Roy and how he was around Plan? If Gavin had been in that situation instead of Plan, it would have turned ugly."

"I can't see him flirting with staff."

"Maybe you're just too old for him," she says with a slight smile. "Or not his type. Too confident or something-- wrong colour hair?" She shrugs. "I wouldn't put it past him."

I feel oddly defensive now; I know Gavin and I know what he's done and I feel like I understand his modus operandi. And I can't see him flirting with staff at all-- it would be beneath him. 

"I'm just glad," she continues, "That we've separated him from Engarde for the time being-- maybe Engarde will lose interest in awhile."

"Well I've got him scheduled for the last session today," I tell her. "Perhaps I can find out."

 

 

 

I switch off my phone after the call.

I shouldn't have had it with me, we're not supposed to have cell phones on the unit-- but fate somehow intervened today, and distracted by so many things, I suppose, it came in to work with me, nestled in my pocket, still switched on and waiting to receive calls. 

It's all I can think about for the moment, and I don't want to. I'm suddenly  _very_  aware of its presence, its hardness, pressing against me-- it bothers me and I take it out and place it in my drawer. Then I'm aware of its absence. 

Of course, I shouldn't have been surprised by the news, and I shouldn't have taken the call in the first place, but I did, instinctively-- I had to find out some way or another. And I did. Here. Now. While I'm at work. I'm lost in thoughts for a moment, I'm thinking about scotch and sitting around the house with my shoes off and the lights out, I'm thinking about how the news I received changes everything, pushing it to the forefront of my mind. I'm trying to work out whether or not I ring Lauryn, how ringing Lauryn may be interpreted. Should I? Shouldn't I? I don't know.

I'm still thinking about it when Engarde is escorted into my office; he's angry and red-faced, and he glares at me through hardly-opened eyes. He moves like a man three times his age, stiff and bitter and wary.

"Hello, Engarde." I'm aware of how vague and distant I sound, and I'm trying to pull myself up as I speak. 

"What do you want?" he snarls. "Gonna get your buddy to shoot me up with something else next time I get angry?" He pulls the chair out aggressively and sits down, his legs bent at the knees, leaning over the desktop menacingly. "Coz I'm  _pissed_  right now and I could do with a bit of oblivion, dude."

"What's happened?" 

Three minutes ago, that's what it was, judging by the time on the clock on the wall.

"Fucking Wellington," he growls. "And Behr. And that shithead Towne."

I'm jolted back into reality. Three minutes ago a bombshell was dropped into my life, one I should have expected, one which shouldn't have impacted upon me like this, one which  _did_.

"What happened?" 

He leans back and falls silent and that's when I study him properly. He looks shaken, as though something  _has_  just happened. 

Of course, he's a Borderline-- he could be overreacting to some perceived slight which really doesn't matter, something which will be forgotten in a few hours. Instinct tells me otherwise though.

"Didn't you hear the yelling?" he asks. 

"No."

All I could hear was the conversation I was lost in for those final moments. That sense of trying to find my bearing, to convince myself that it was to be expected. 

He peers at me as I am at him. "Geez, doc, what the fuck's up with  _you_?"

"Nothing," I tell him, in a voice that's entirely too cheerful and fake.

"Whatever." His concern for me is gone then. "You know what happened to  _me_?" he asks, before abruptly interrupting himself. "I found out that Behr's gonna kill me." There's a wary pause and his voice lowers. " _No_ ," he says. " _Seriously._ "

"What makes you believe that?" Trying to keep myself calm. For everyone's benefit.

"I'll  _tell_  you," he snaps. "Wellington-- The piece of shit  _told_  me." He looks around him. "Then they're gonna do Gavin. After me." He's frightened. He's gripping his elbows now, and leaning back. "And Towne doesn't believe it's possible, that him and his merry fucking men are going to keep everyone safe-- I call bullshit on that-- they can't be everywhere at once." He snorts. 

I feel disjointed from myself-- it's surreal and dreamlike. I want to talk to Anna, to see how she's feeling about everything; I need to talk to Anna-- but I need to deal with Engarde right now. The urgency is irritating.

"So you've been reassigned to Towne?" I ask, flipping through his file. "How's that?"

He gives me the sort of look as though I've asked him how it feels to be gravely injured by someone. "Towne's indifferent," he says. "And he's stupid. He doesn't even know about the shivs on the unit. He point-blank doesn't believe Wellington. I guess he doesn't want to-- that means more complication and paperwork, right?" He looks at me intently. "I want you to move Gavin and I to protective or we're going to be forced to take  _drastic_  action."

"Mr. Engarde-- my office isn't a place for threats."

  
"It's not a threat," he says. "It's a  _promise_." And then he smiles crookedly at me, and runs a hand through his hair. "If no one's going to do anything abut them, we're forced to, right?" His voice is rising again.

"Have you discussed your concerns with the relevant workers?"

Another ridiculous glare. "I know where it's coming from," he says. "It's  _Gant_. The bastard's too sly to do anything himself and Behr's eating out of the palm of his hand." He leans in again. "Towne says I'm being overreactive here-- he said I needed to discuss my meds with you, doc, but-- they've got a backup plan if they can't get close to me. And it'll work, I swear."

And that's when there's a pause from him, and the silence. It's space. Space for it to all come flooding back to me.

Fourteen minutes ago, Liz told me what she'd been putting off telling me for weeks; what she was worried and embarrassed about telling me, even though she wasn't quite sure why. Because it was awkward and strange, because you don't really think about having to come out with something like that, because you never think you'll be in that position--

"What's the backup plan?"

"I can't tell you," he says. And his hand moves to his face, the sleeve of his shirt lifting to expose tanned but paling arms and silvering scars marring his skin. "I'm going to get killed either way," he says through tears. "Either by Behr and Wellington in front of Gavin, or for being a rat."

"What do you mean by that?"

  
"I can't tell you."

His hand meets his face and he angrily wipes tears away. "I'm trying to work out which way I'd prefer to go-- do I go leaving him oblivious to the fact that he'll be next, or do I go making him watch? Because that's what they're going to do--"

"Mr. Engarde," I offer gently. I'm lost. I don't know what he's talking about; he's sounding paranoid and unstable and terrified. He shouldn't be talking to me; I shouldn't be dealing with this. "I don't know what you're talking about."

He's shaking slightly. "I don't want to die." His voice is a childish whimper. "I'm thirty-three years old and I'm having to think about how I want to die for the second time in my life-- it's like those little forms that they give you when you get your date-- only mine kept getting overturned until the change in the law-- I always thought I'd go with the lethal injection--" He's rambling.

"You were spared the death penalty," I tell him calmly. "Your sentence was reduced to life without the possibility of parole."

"That's not according to the other people who make decisions around here," he says bitterly. "And I'm not telling  _you_  anything else-- I don't trust you."

He's sounding frantic and terrified. I reach for the box of tissues on my desk and hand it to him-- he snatches it away from me and rips one out of the top, angrily drying his eyes. 

I nod. It's all I can do, all I have the effort to do right now.

"Would I be considered suicidal if I returned to the unit knowing that I'm going to get killed if I do?" he asks vaguely, "Because that's a psych problem, right?"

 _Nice try_.

"I need some... proof, I guess."

"Even that  _dick_  in Gavin's cell knows about it," he snarls. 

And then I detect the second part of his issue: it sounds like the typical green-eyed monster emerging. I'm not sure what he's more upset about any more; the fact that someone  _else_  is sharing a cell with Gavin, or the death threats. Perhaps he's overreacting to both... perhaps he would be if it weren't for the fact that others knew about the death threats.

"So you don't like Moreau?" I ask.

The fear in his eyes turns to hatred. "Why the fuck did they move us in with these assholes, anyway?" he snaps. "They knew that Gavin and I--"

"There were significant safety concerns regarding you and Gavin," I tell him softly.

"Yeah, but he did what he did because we're worried about the death threats." He sniffs. "Now we're holed up with these idiots." He sniffs again. "Callander freaks me out," he says. "And that computer guy Gavin's sharing with--"

Both of us stop, silent, and he narrows his eyes at me as though he doesn't need to explain anything else.

"Why don't we talk about the situation?" I ask him. 

At least he's calmer. At least he's not being fatalistic and frantic, delusional and terrified, or maybe  _not_  delusional if prison hearsay is to be believed-- and vaguely trying to manipulate me.

  
He sniffs, running his hand through his hair, and the changes the subject. "I need a haircut," he muses to himself.

"Mr. Engarde--"

"Jesus." The furious glare is back on his face. "What do you want to  _talk about_? What good's it gonna do?"

"We haven't talked about your new rooming arrangement yet," I point out. 

  
"Can you report down that it's bad for my mental health or something?" he asks, smiling slightly. "And that it would be  _much better_  for my mental health if I could get put back in with Gavin?" He's making that pleading face at me, that sweet-and-innocent, photographed for  _HQ_  magazine actor-model pose which charmed thousands before the world knew he hired an assassin to murder his competition.

"No, Mr. Engarde."

"Even if I say  _please_?" His voice settles into something coy and husky. "Perhaps I could do  _more_  than say please." 

"Excuse me?" Hopefully the tone of my voice conveys sufficient disgust. Engarde is taken aback, and he shrugs and chuckles. "Hey," he says nastily. "It was worth a try, right?"

I'm shocked in a way that cuts deeper than the suggestion: it's the idea that I'd take advantage of someone like that, that I'm just as corrupt as other staff are rumoured to be-- that bothers me. 

"Not with me."

"Oh," he says. "Right." 

He's desperate and grasping at anything he can grab. In a way, I feel sorry for him; he's no longer the big man with people at his beck and call, no longer the star with women hanging off his arms attending red carpet events and launches. He's...  _here_ , damaged and broken and fearing for his life.

"Let's talk about your new roommates."

He sighs, and looks at me. "Callander's a perv, man," he says. "And he's an idiot. He keeps trying to talk to me while I'm reading."

"You're reading?" I ask. "What are you reading?"

"Gavin got me onto law books," he says. "He says I should start learning about my rights in here." He smiles serenely. "He wants to ask the librarian if we can get in video transcripts of trials he's done and stuff." The smile changes. "I would give my left kidney to see when that prick Phoenix Wright got taken down."

There's something strangely unnerving about the idea of Gavin encouraging Engarde to read legal texts. Has Engarde replaced Justice as his new assistant and protege?

"So," I say, "About these room mates."

"Moreau's got it  _bad_  for Gavin," he says. "Always talking to him, always annoying him-- it's--" And he falls silent again, picking at a scab on the back of his hand. "I don't like the little prick," he snarls. "Everything was better when it was just us two."

"Why does his presence bother you that much?" I ask. "Is it  _Moreau_  in particular, or do you just dislike  _anyone_  sharing with Gavin?"

He nods. His face is still red and he looks embarrassed. "That," he says sharply. "Gavin doesn't fuck with me, and he doesn't treat me like an idiot."

"Yet you allowed him to--"

"He knew what he was doing," he snaps. "And so did I-- I've  _told_  you that before, doc." He's annoyed. I'm gingerly trying to retrace where we were last time, moments before I had a cup of chocolate milk thrown at me. 

My hand reaches down to Anna's plaster model, and I pull it across the desktop towards me, hoping he doesn't notice. "Look," he says with a sigh. "You people-- the officers here, the workers-- none of you have any problem believing that someone could enjoy hurting someone, so why does  _everyone_  suggest that the situation with Gavin and I is about him hurting me?"

 _Because you were hospitalised with injuries sustained by him_ , I'm close to pointing out, but he continues. And this is no time for sarcasm.

"I mean, I see the appeal," he says nastily. "When Corrida died--  _shit_ \-- I'd have done  _anything_  to hang onto that tape." He smiles fondly at the memory. "I would have given anything to have done it myself-- maybe I should have since I got fucked over and wound up in here any way-- I wonder how it  _felt_." There's a flash of a smile, deceptively innocent from him. "You see it in here all the time," he says. "It's power, I guess, release, like you're just  _it_  for a moment, like you're a  _god_. Like you're on the best quality coke and most expensive brandy imaginable; like you're fucking  _invincible._ "

  
"So why do you allow Gavin to do things to you without asking the same of him?"

I've hit a nerve, I've asked him something he's probably already realised he's being steered towards, and he looks, for a moment, as though he's going to explode again. Instead, his expression softens. "I was thinking about that the other day," he says. "You know how you shrinks-- I know my shrink I was seeing when I was on the outside-- talked a lot about association-- I guess I got to associate things that hurt with things that felt amazing." And there's a smile again, crooked and sly and taunting and seductive. "You probably won't believe half the stuff I've done, doc," he says casually. 

"You did tell me about a few things years ago."

"I talked a lot when I was high, didn't I?"

 _And flew off the handle, or into floods of tears a lot_. It's then when I realise that he hasn't told me a great deal about his childhood, that our sessions usually got bogged down with discussion of prison life, his drug use, his psychology. There were vague mentions of childhood-- he'd come from a working-class background, had two older brothers who went into blue-collar trades, and he abandoned the family when he was sixteen in search of fame. And became Global Studios' darling and cash cow for a couple of seasons after the original  _Steel Samurai_  finished up for the first few seasons.

"You never told me much about your life before you came here." 

 

He's calming down, comfortable. Maybe this reminds him of the earlier years, when he was interviewed and talked to by industry giants. He smiles at me. "My formative years, doctor?" he asks before snapping-- "were  _shit_."

There's a silence between us and I wonder if he's going to continue. 

"I wasn't abused at home, just no one got me-- I was meant to just plod along, like everyone else did, go work in a factory or whatever-- and, well, screw that." He picks at his hand again. "All my life I grew up seeing money as some sort of  _thing_  which was lifeblood, the cause of everything that was shit in my life and people's lives around me. We were shit, we were damned, we were all a bunch of no-hopers going to hell in a putrid, shit-stinking hellhole." He tosses his hair then, and there's a flash of teeth. "I don't regret leaving," he says. "I was better than that."

"Did you  _miss_  your family at all?"

He blinks, like I've asked him to calculate pi to the last digit and he's never even opened a sixth-grade math book. " _No_ ," he says. "Why should I have missed them? It wasn't like they  _did anything_."

I wonder if Anna has ever spoken about me like that. I hope not. God, I hope not.

"Look," he says. "When I was seeing Celeste, she got me to get back in contact with my mom." He's sounding bored. "We didn't really, you know,  _connect_." He brushes his troublesome hair out of his eyes. "It was  _surreal_. Mom just wanted money, to pay off, you know, the house and shit-- the piece of crap house we'd lived in when we were kids-- and there I was, thinking I could buy and sell the bitch and everything she'd ever had." He sniffs. "Maybe I just wasn't cut out for the family thing, you know."

I can feel disgust in the back of my throat but I quell it, asking him a question.

"So what  _were_  you cut out for?"

"Fame, dude," he says easily. "The whole nine gazillion yards. The mansion. The condo. The bikes. The cars. The women. The  _wine_. The  _drugs_." But it was more than that: there was attention and adoration. "I was  _so_  cut out for that shit. Really." And he smiles at the memory. "The thing was: to get there: it wasn't all smooth sailing-- I--" And he starts playing with the back of his hand again, the scab now gone, an angry pink hole where it was, threatening blood. "I did some pretty out-there shit to get where I was." He chuckles to himself, reducing it to humour. "Ever heard of the casting couch, doc?"

I nod.

"I did what I had to," he says. "I mean, who could resist the sweet young thing with those big brown eyes and that cute little smile and the expressions and the voice and the refreshing as a spring breeze bullshit?" He smirks. "I guess I learned that when things hurt, there's an equally awesome side of the coin too." 

"So pain felt good." 

He nods. "Yeah." And then pauses. "And I was usually so pumped full of drugs anyway that it just amplified everything. It was all good, all glamourous, all wonderful-- and then I got the gig on that kids' show-- and then I was the Nickel fucken Samurai, and I could have anything I wanted." His nose wrinkles. "I wasn't Matt Engarde back then," he says. "I was Matt Clead. Matt fucken  _Clead_. A nobody with a hick name and nothing... and then I transformed for my audience. For the studio. For  _everyone_." Another refreshing as a spring breeze smile. "I had the whole fucking world looking after me-- I didn't need to lift a finger unless I wanted to go shopping, I was everyone's choirboy darling."

I nod. "So the pain--?"

"I guess I wanted something else, you know? Maybe it was rebellion-- I scratched my face up pretty bad when I missed an audition and then did the peekaboo hairstyle thing-- it was my little secret, right-- this body, this  _thing_  which belonged to the studio, to the franchise, to the fans--  _I_  could still have my secrets. And there was something really--  _refreshing_  in that." 

And then he's done, and he glances at my hands, at the desktop, and his eyes meet mine. "And then I came here."

I nod again, not too sure where this is going.

"And I guess it became different-- it was like my  _fuck you_  to everyone here that I could withstand pain, that I couldn't be broken with it, right?" His voice has changed again to something light and thin and weak like watered down skim milk. He blinks again and his eyes don't quite meet mine. "But it's  _different_  with Gavin," he says.

"So you trust him?" I ask tentatively.

He scowls at me. "I don't trust  _anyone_ ," he sneers. "Dude, this is  _prison_ \-- everyone's out for themselves or their piece of the action. All I do is try to get things working in my favour, right?" It's so dismissive and carefree. "And I have a good arrangement with Gavin, right?" He sniffs. "My theory is that Waverley's gotten in someone's ear and he just wants to fuck us around, you know-- he'd be pretty fucken happy if we were still trying to kill one another, you know?" 

"Waverley has a professional responsibility to ensure the safety of the unit," I tell him unsteadily.

"Bullshit." He sniffs again, haughty and unimpressed. "Even I'm not dumb enough to fall for that one." He leans in. "And I  _know_  you don't believe that." His nose wrinkles. "Or have you bought into all the crap that's going on on the unit?" His eyes sparkle as though he's figured something out. "Is  _that_  what you were being weird about before-- has Parke given you notice or something?" He watches me carefully for a reaction from me and all of a sudden, Liz and Smeer and the workplace politics are competing for pole position in my mind. 

 

And Engarde still manages to sound so casual about it all, maybe even slightly amused. 

  
I don't know what to say.

"Am I right?" And that's when I see the hint of concern. Worry. Paranoia.

" _Shit_." 

"I haven't been given notice," I tell him. "I'm still on the payroll-- we've just taken on another psychiatric specialist."

I can hear the uncertainty in my voice, and I'm glad when the session ends. This former entertainer, the people-reader-- he can tell all is not good, he's not  _stupid_. His intelligence differs to Gavin's, but he understands people. And I wonder what he thinks of the idea of me leaving. Would he be sad? Worried? Scared? Or would I be as easy to forget and as insignificant as his mother was? Does he harbour that sort of resentment towards me?

I study him as there's the knock on the door, and with that knock I snap back to the task at hand.

"Right," I tell him. "I'll be honest with you-- I'm putting you-- and Gavin-- on observations."

"Make sure it's not Waverley doing the obs," he says, sounding irritated. "Waverley's a  _cunt_." I ignore the resentment. He wanted me to recommend that he and Gavin share a room together but I'm not prepared to override everyone else like that.

"And I want you to stay safe," I tell him. "I want you to talk to Towne if you have any concerns for your safety."

"I'm not a rat," he says angrily, folding his arms and tossing his head. "And don't go telling anyone I told you about Gant and Behr and Wellington. Coz they'll just bring in plan B."

"You never told me what Plan B was," I say with a smile. "So your secret is safe with me."

He smirks at me. "If you don't know things, you can't fuck me over."

"I suppose." I sigh, and Hamm opens the door. Engarde leaves his seat and walks over towards him, but does a double-take and spins around, pointing a finger at me, his hair looking wild and feral and redder than I remember it being. "And don't let anything happen to Gavin, either," he says.

  
When the door shuts behind him, I lean into my hands and sigh. I feel some of his pain: like him, I feel like everyone knows that my days here are numbered.

 

 

 

 

 

“Hey." Parke doesn't knock on my door; if he does, I didn't hear it and I'm not really expecting him to be standing in my office, leaning in, nervous and tentative, as though I'm  _fragile_. Is my mental state that obvious? I'd prefer to think not.

"Hi." I look up from the computer screen. "What's happened  _now_?"

He looks taken aback and ready to say something, mock-hurt, as though to imply that I'm an asshole for suggesting that he only ever comes to me when he wants something. But he stops himself; perhaps there's a truth in that which cuts a bit too close to comfort for him.

"I was actually wondering how you're travelling," he says. There's unexpected concern on his face, which I can only suspect is genuine, because never,  _ever_  in the years I've worked here, have I seen Parke looking like that.

"I'm still alive, and I'm still showing up for work, aren't I?" I smile, only realising afterwards that it probably hasn't convinced him, but I don't want any condescending pep talks from Parke; I'm not actually sure what I want right now. To finish this stupid report and head home, perhaps.

"I guess," he says, brow furrowing, bothered. "I suppose I'm a bit worried about everyone given the changes happening around here."

And then I understand: he's typical Parke, here because he wants something, even if that something is as simple as conversation and understanding. He actually looks worried. "How are  _you_  feeling about all this?"

He's testing the waters.

"I'll admit some recent administration changes around here haven't impressed me," I offer diplomatically. 

"There's been some cost-cutting," he says, still looking unimpressed. "I wondered what you were thinking about that."

"I don't like Will Smeer's way of doing things," I say stiffly, surprised at the anger which has still managed to remain in me. Before Parke entered my office, I felt drained and tired, as though mustering up anger about anything would be too much of an effort. Now, being asked about things-- "I think he's far too inexperienced to be handling the caseload that he is and that he should be working under someone or something-- I don't know."

"Is this in reference to what happened to Engarde the other day?"

Parke doesn't look at all pleased. I wonder if he was hoping that I'd casually agree that it was all for the very best, that since I'd been in the room with Engarde when he escalated, I'd understand.

"Engarde's had no history of psychotic behaviour and should have just been restrained and moved to isolation like anyone else."

Parke grimaces. "Given what we've spent on sick leave for our core staff and expenditure in the health sector, not to mention what we've spent on specialists, they're wanting corners cut."

"Engarde is now feeling doubly betrayed by me and my profession," I tell him.

He cranes his neck to look at the report I'm writing. "Yet he told you all about his childhood and why he gets off on being hurt. That sounds like he doesn't trust you at  _all_ , doc."

"He was trying to blindside me with what he hoped would be shocking information because he doesn't want to talk about the day-to-day stuff," I grumble. "And he's feeling unsafe and unsupported being returned to the unit."

"So what's the solution? He can't stay on the hospital wing: that's what got us into this mess in the first place. Wellington outstayed his welcome, too."

"Engarde and Gavin have both told me that the entire unit knows there's a price on their heads, and that Wellington wishes to claim it."

Parke laughs at me then. "Wellington?" he asks. "What's he going to do? Flirt with them until they kill themselves?"

I smile. Slightly. "You saw that he's been involved in more incidents around here lately, didn't you?" I ask.

"He's trying to get the right hand man position in Gant's gang now that Redd White has permanently vacated it," he says. "And we  _always_  get this shiftaround when someone dies or a long-termer leaves. It just happens-- you know how it goes."

"And if I'm  _right_?" I ask.

"I owe you a case of whiskey and a year's paid leave."

 

I'm almost tempted. Almost. To take his joke, let something happen, and then make it serious when he's pale and horrified at what's happened and that there's in inquiry into two more deaths in custody. I think back to Matt Engarde suggesting, this afternoon, that I'm just as corruptible as others who work here. And it's that, in that moment, more than my own desire to do my job properly, more than the oath I swore by, more than the desire to just end this conversation quickly so I can brave post-peak-hour traffic and go home-- which makes me dig my heels in.

"I'm being  _serious_."

"Hey, so am I." Parke chuckles, infuriating me. 

"I've put them both on obs, given their psychiatric histories, Engarde's prior issues of victimisation and Gavin's interactions with Wellington and his known desire for revenge."

Parke nods. "That sounds about right."

"I'm requesting that Wellington be placed on obs as well, and that..." And here's the but I don't want to say-- "that Glenn Waverley  _not_  be assigned to any of them."

Parke smirks. "I can't do that."

"I think everyone in this situation would prefer it if you tried, at least-- Waverley despises them, they despise him, and they believe Wellington and Waverley have an alliance... not that I'm suggesting that they do, but if they get that idea, then..."

"They say the same thing about you, you know," Parke says casually.

My shock must be evident.

"I'm telling you this as a  _friend_ , right-- but word on the unit is that certain inmates who like to keep their mouths and other orifices busy in exchange for protection are receiving preferential treatment from you."

 _Fuck_. Parke, to his credit, doesn't look pleased to be telling me this, and he doesn't look like he believes it, either. 

"It's not like I see many of the people who are probably assisting that gossip."

"Since Smeer's been working here, there has been a shift in caseloads," he tells me-- "Smeer's been allocated the lower-level clients, the simpler cases-- you still seem to get the talkers and the slicers."

"How eloquent."

 

"You know what I mean."

"Yeah: I get what everyone else has thrown in the too-hard basket."

Parke smiles gravely. "I'm not going to deny that," he says. "And I might as well let you know who Will Smeer is while we're talking about this in the privacy of your office, doctor."

I raise my eyebrows. I somehow suspected nepotism at play here, but--

"DeNong's brother's godson is Will Smeer."

I can only stare at him, helpless and worried, like I'm watching, for a split second, a train moving on the wrong side of the tracks towards me, blinding white light destroying my vision before the impact. "Shit," I say quietly.

"It's not just someone filling in to play godfather for his brother, though," Parke says in a mock-cheerful tone. "DeNong is a pragmatist-- it's more economically sound to keep a cheaper psychiatrist on the books."

"Than what?" I ask suspiciously.

And then he stares at me, as though in my suspicion I haven't even considered it. "DeNong is backed up by powerful people," he says. "And that includes in here and out there-- he's a smooth operator, a networker-- he's going to run this prison on the bare essentials he can get away with-- as long as there's enough pizazz to keep the media well-fed every quarter and to quash rumours about the prison being a hellhole in need of funding, he'll be laughing."

"Of course he will."

 

Parke sighs. "Look," he says softly. "I'm already looking around other prisons to see what's out there and as soon as something as good as this comes up, I'm getting the fuck out. Shit's about to hit the fan worse than it would have when Kopprer was here."

I can't help but smile at the reference to one of our former inmates. 

"It's already looking pretty crappy," I tell him. He's smiling. We're grown men reduced to potty humour for the moment.

"I'll give you a good reference," he tells me. "If you need one, right?"

I nod, and we look at one another sadly, and then something in Parke's face hardens. "No one knows about any of this, right? I think some staff have their suspicions, but you'll notice that  _some_  seem to be sleeping easy lately." I don't like the emphasis on the word  _some_.

"If DeNong's clearing out the ranks, then I guess you won't have to worry about Waverley."

He snorts. "Yeah," he says, "I can get fired with him and go work with him in another prison. Wonderful."

There's another silence. "I think the two of us just need to go home, get out of here, have a few drinks, forget about it for awhile." He looks out in the direction of the unit from my office, as though he can see through walls and can empathise with the population in here who don't get to go home.

I think of Engarde and Gavin, unhappy and separated. I think of Wellington, wondering if he's seriously wanting to kill them. I think of Gant, cheerful and jolly and having everyone else do his dirty work for him. I think of Crescend, who seems to be improving, of Armando, who was released and seems to have stayed sane and not been institutionalised, and I think of White and the fixed-too-late hanging points in solitary.

And I realise that more than anything, I can't just up and leave this place like Parke says he can.

"It's a system run by people above us, and we ultimately have no control over the choices they make," he says gravely. Still looking in that direction, I suspect he's drawn a comparison to our charges. "In some ways, we're just like them, I guess."

  


It's when we've gathered our things and are walking through the carpark, cigarettes in hands, that Parke looks at me again. "Is it  _just_  this place that's been eating at you?" he asks. "You look like death warmed up today."

I think of even Matt Engarde noting that, and I feel another pang of sadness. 

"Not really," I admit out loud for the first time-- "I got a phonecall from my ex-wife today."

"Yeah?" Parke's eyebrows lift and he looks genuinely conerned again. I'm not used to it on him.

"She's told me she's getting married to her partner and that Anna wants him to adopt her."

Parke doesn't know, like I don't know-- what to say to that. 

We part uncomfortably, wisps of smoke from our cigarettes trailing into the night sky, and we head to our respective cars. 

None of us, it seems, has much of a choice. I feel like a traitor to the talk therapy I offer, thinking that.

 

 

 

 

I unlock my door and turn on the light; my living area feels cold and empty in a way that it never had before. It's not that I came home to any presence, my home was always  _my_  home, and it was always in the singular; I'd forgone animal companionship because of my crazy work hours, houseplants never lasted long with me. 

Facing me, as I walk in, is a picture of the three of us; Liz, Anna and I, in the months before the divorce. 

A last-ditch attempt, too little and too late, to salvage the marriage and my familial connections had lead us up to the snow for a week; in the photograph, we all look happy, we're all smiling, rugged up in snow jackets and scarves. 

Who would have assumed that it would take less than a year for everything to cave in on itself?

My message bank is empty, no one's called, and for some reason, that depresses me. It wasn't that I ever thought things would magically patch up and return to the normal they'd been years ago, it's the finality of what's happening, it's being sad and angry about something I don't have the right to be sad and angry about which bothers me, too. I knew Liz was seeing someone. I knew that he and Anna got along well. At one stage, I'd hoped things would work out for them, and I'd happily hung in stasis, where we were all comfortable, where nothing was set in stone. 

And then it had been.

Liz had been apologetic for not getting back to me; she'd been busy, everyone had been busy-- and there was a sheltered nervousness in her voice, an I-know-this-is-silly-worrying-what-you-think- _but_ , which somehow made everything worse. 

I turn the photograph over, facedown, like people do when they're in mourning in dramatic movie moments. It feels teenage and pathetic, but I don't want to look at them now, I don't want to think about the job I chose over my marriage and family, the job I was so content in, the job which would never, I assume, wake up and tell me that I was too old and being cast aside for a younger model.

A job which was dangerous and flawed and where I was treated like dirt and underappreciated, but a job which was  _mine_. 

I think of Parke's odd little confessional and Liz moving on-- "Marrying," she'd said, not " _re_ marrying"-- remarrying would be doing the same thing over and we both knew that meant with the same person, and perhaps neither Liz nor I  _were_  the same people we were when we first started dating. 

It's sobering and heartbreaking all at once.

I pour myself a scotch and relax on the sofa; I'm tired but too full of thoughts to consider sleep. I turn on the television, noting the layer of dust on top of it and feeling even more depressed-- it's depressing that there's dust on the television, and it's depressing that there's so little worth watching on the television that I'm noticing the dust. 

I sip my drink, and then start pacing aimlessly. I'm reminded of Gavin and his time in isolation, the back-and-forth, back-and-forth walking, striding along like a bored zoo animal with nothing else to do.

I feel like that. At least, I think I feel as he did, stressed and frantic and with energy but nowhere to place it. At that point, he believed Engarde to be dead, to be gone forever, and feeling as I do now, I have the sense that I have a sort of empathy for him I hadn't realised before. Once again I return to thinking that he actually cares more for Engarde than anyone else realises; and thinking about  _that_ , and their messy and strange and disturbing situation depresses me as well. 

And then I think about Lily and her comment about Justice, that he still loved Gavin, and the cruelty and awfulness of it for him, caring enough to see him in prison only to be lead along and unaware of the reality.

The fact that I'm considering all of this when I was thinking about my failed relationship and the problems with my life annoys me; the job has leeched into me, and I can't get rid of it. Is it a curse or a beautiful distraction?

I'm not sure. 

And then I'm thinking once again about the fact that like a relationship, it could only be a long but temporary situation anyway. 

 

I sensed that the time was coming for the end of my marriage, and I've had that sense about the workplace. There are subtle nuances, things you notice, things you put on the backburner when you're confronted with more immediate stresses, more pressing things to sort out. 

For the first time in my life, I feel like a complete failure. 

It's childish and stupid and pathetic, and some part of me is disgusted at myself for allowing emotion to bleed into my professional life; I'm meant to be rational and impartial-- no matter what the rumour mill on the prison floor might be suggesting-- yet everything right now seems to have taken on a resemblance to my own life and weird circumstances.

Perhaps my time really is up, but everyone, like Liz, just never knew how to break it to me.

 


	17. Turnover

"They're fucking disgusting." Waverley slams his half-empty coffee cup down on the table with such force that it's as though he's forgotten he's still got coffee in it.

"I'll admit," Parke starts to say, but he's cut off again--

"This isn't the time for diplomacy, Parke, they shouldn't be doing it. This is a  _prison_ , for fuck's sake, not a match-making service for homicidal fags."

From across the table, Lily raises an eyebrow at him, like an animal pounced and poised and ready to strike. She doesn't, as Waverley continues.

"And they're doing it on purpose, too. They  _know_  I don't like it. I tell them to knock it off, they don't listen. They get worse. It's like they're exhibitionists or something."

I clear my throat. "Perhaps they are."

"Don't give me your psychobabble horseshit," Waverley snaps, spinning around to face me. "They're doing it because they know it fucks me off."

"So it didn't bother you when Engarde was doing that stuff with Wood?" Parke raises an eyebrow as well. 

"That was different," Waverley snaps, coffee mug now slammed on the table. "Wood and Engarde weren't being so... like  _this_  about it. They had decency."

"Because it's  _decent_  to accept blowjobs from people under your care because they want preferential treatment, isn't it?" Lily snaps.

"I'm not saying that," Waverley splutters, face red with fury, eyes focussed on Lily as though the only thing he can think of is slapping her across the face. Lily reacts as she does to threats; with a hardened, still front, as if  _daring_  him to even  _try_.

"At least they were doing their thing in private," he hisses. "I mean, hey, it was  _wrong_ , but at least I didn't have to look at it all the damned time."

"Denying them the right to freedom of expression is denying them a fundamental human right," Parke says.

"Because it's their human right to act like a pair of sex-starved teenagers?" He sighs, exasperated. "I'm saying, this causes problems. We have enough issues as it is, with the two of them feeling victimised by Behr and Wellington and--"

"I've heard that, too." Parke doesn't look pleased about it, either. "The whole  _unit_  is hearing that, which is why they've been placed on obs."

"Letting them wander around playing at some stupid love story is only going to make that target on their backs much bigger."

"Half the prison population already thinks Engarde's name is Cumdumpster. I don't think he cares any more." Parke rolls his eyes. "Why are you so concerned, anyway? You protecting America's youth or something? I think these two are already damned."

"It's just... they're just doing it to fuck with me."

"I thought they were just doing it to fuck with one another," Lily suggests. 

Waverley gives her another death glare and then looks at me. "It's an illness, isn't it?" he says nastily. "I mean, I can accept that there are guys who like guys and all, but the doing this shit in front of me stuff-- that's gotta be sick, right?" He looks almost helpless as he says it, as though he's desperate to find vindication somewhere.

"Maybe they wouldn't be so eager to feel each other up if they were sharing a room," Lily suggests.

I privately agree, but I'm not agreeing out loud.

"That's precisely what they  _want_ ," Parke says. "And I'm not doing that." He sighs. "Not  _yet_ , anyway."

"Yet?" Waverley asks.

Parke looks coy. "I'm sure the time will come where they'll have something  _I_  need, and they'll need a reason to give it up. Until then, they can learn the hard way that if you try to manipulate the system, and if you assault your cell mates, there are repercussions."

He sounds so final about it. 

"Right," Parke continues, decision made and final. "Lily; gentlemen-- let's get to work."

 

 

 

"So I understand that you're not particularly pleased with the rooming situation now?"

Gavin's face offers nothing; not bitter amusement and a snide, put-down chuckle--  _very funny, doc_ \-- not rage nor sadness nor anything else.

"Why should you suppose I am?"

"I was suggesting that you are  _not_."

"You would have  _suggested_  correctly, then, doctor." He folds his hands in his lap and looks at me, waiting for me to say something. "But I have learned since arriving here and onto the unit that the way this place works is that I am entirely at the mercy of the administration and the staff." He leans in then, his voice heavy and intense, a sparkle in his eye. "Does that  _excite_  you?" he asks. "Does that comfort you when you sleep at night-- that all of us-- the condemned and uncontrollable  _can_  be contained somewhere, that they are completely  _dominated_  by something bigger than they are?" He smiles then, simple and evil and calm and terrifying. "I humbly accept defeat in this case, doctor."

The way he says it gives it an eerie glow, as though he isn't at all bothered. I have two moves available to me now: to play along, or to subtly tap at him, revealing the truth: that he  _is_  bothered by what's happened.

"You don't seem to have allowed your relations with Engarde to have been affected by a petty location problem," I point out.

He grins broadly then, in a way that I haven't really seen before. "I understand that there have been some concerns about your interactions with Engarde."

"I understand that people are going to see things that they would prefer not to when I'm on observations," he says calmly.

"And you do understand, though, that those observations are for your own safety and for that of--" I'm lost, trying to find a descriptor-- "Engarde, don't you?"

"I would never have picked Waverley for being so narrowminded," he says. 

It's then that I actually feel a pang of sympathy for Waverley. Waverley who is grouchy and determined to hold his own and just do his job, who doesn't want complication and human relationships to deal with, Waverley who is uncomfortable with having to watch two men being overly affectionate with one another; Waverley, I hope, who is more bothered by their relationship in context with what Gavin has done in the past to Engarde than anything else. 

"You're doing it partially to annoy him, aren't you?"

He looks irritated by the notion. Either because I've seen through it, or because he's offended at the suggestion that he could be so childish.

"Engarde is insatiable," he says with a smirk. "Would you rather I deprived him of what he seeks and allowed him to destroy himself with drugs and the possibility of sexually transmitted diseases elsewhere--" he spits the last few words out with disgust-- "or would you rather him be in the careful hands of someone who has some level of concern towards him?"

"We're talking about  _you_ , Mr. Gavin, not Engarde."

"Then kindly refrain from bringing him up," he says stiffly.

I don't want to bite, to play along with him, but he has a point. Almost. 

"All right then," I say gingerly. "Let's talk about Justice."

His smile grows. "All right then," he says softly, hands moving slightly, pale and devil-scar-less for the moment though I can tell he's unamused. "Let's."

"How did you feel about seeing him?"

He takes a while before answering, and then sits up a bit straighter in his chair, pushing his glasses up his nose. "Conflicted," he replies. "I don't know what to think. Perhaps I wish I'd not seen him."

"Why did you agree to it?"

"Because one thing remained the same about him," he says, his voice still quiet and almost uneasy. "His persistence. I couldn't help but suppose that some part of him was unchanged and untainted and that he possibly wanted my friendship."

"Why does that interest you?" I ask him. "He betrayed you, didn't he?"

"He came to me seeking answers," he says. "And I suppose I sought a few with him." He's still looking at me, unflinching. "I suppose some part of me doesn't yet have concrete proof that his betrayal was entirely intentional. As I told him, he was puppeteered by Wright. Perhaps he resented that as much as I did."

  
I doubt it. I seriously doubt it.

"How will you ever know?" I ask him. 

"I have my means," he says. "I understand that he's to be appearing at the prison again in a few days to visit once more-- as I said, he does have persistence."

I nod, unsure what he means. "I have a simple test which will tell me where his loyalties lie and what might come of our relationship." 

"Do you want to talk about that?"

"Not with you, at the moment," he says. "If I were to, I'd be placing my experiment at considerable risk--" He leans in again, as though he's about to tell me something. "I must ask if you recall that period when you were refusing to see me for awhile-- I think you'd learned something about me which you found distasteful-- perhaps it was after the first incident at night time with Engarde or I'd casually mentioned some things which occurred whilst Klavier was living with me..." He trails off, looking thoughtful. "Ahh, yes-- it  _was_  Klavier, wasn't it?"

He speaks of it as though it's just a vague memory, and that my disgust is almost amusing. "In hindsight I wish that had been brought to your attention earlier, because then you wouldn't have reacted in that fashion, I suspect-- though I suppose you understand that it isn't really a subject which occurs in everyday conversation, is it?" He blinks, mouth twisting slightly, looking bothered.

"I would have preferred a full disclosure about your history of sexual offending."

"When?" he asks. "We were talking about so many other things."

"I felt betrayed by that," I tell him steadily. "Lied to."

"I apologise, then," he says smoothly. "And I apologise if this is at all upsetting you, talking about it now." He eyes me carefully then, as though he's trying to see if he's hit a weak spot. When he gets nothing, no response from me, he hastily continues-- "Anyway, my point was in relation to that-- do you recall me offering to tell you a secret?"

I remember him wanting to talk to me and saying something about it, and managing to word it in a disturbing manner. I nod.

"I never shared that secret with you," he admits. "Though I may share it with young Justice, solely to ascertain his loyalty."

"What  _sort_  of secret  _is_  this?"

"I can't tell you, I'm afraid," he says quietly, almost saddened. "You're a psychiatrist, not a confessional booth."

"You're not Catholic any more."

He smiles. "Maybe it would be nice if I were," he says thoughtfully. "I could confess and repent and go on with my life."

"I think there's more to it than that."

"Oh, but I truly  _am_  sorry," he says earnestly. "What I have done fills me with remorse: I can blame myself for allowing the legal system to become a corrupted, emotion-driven  _joke_  now governed by Joe and Jane Nobody who have no real interest in the law or justice but who view the courts as some kind of melodramatic soap opera." He blinks, and there's a shudder in his voice. "For that, I truly am sorry." 

If being his psychiatrist is unnerving enough, I'd hate to be the person stuck listening to the things he won't tell me. 

"Are you  _sure_  you don't wish to discuss it."

"Yes," he says. "I'm sure of it."

He folds his arms and leans back. "If you learn of it, I suppose that means that Justice wasn't trustworthy, which means that I have learned where I stand with him-- or that another action of mine has failed and somehow been discovered, I suppose." And there's a casual shrug. "Wouldn't you rather analyse my childhood and concentrate on fixing me?"

The snide tone of voice he's adopted is annoying me. "Mr. Gavin," I tell him sharply, "If you are trying to play games with me--"

"I apologise, doctor, but I must state that the prison environment is like others in the Western world: we're a society of capitalists. And as I am  _sure_  you are aware, no one gives away anything for nothing." He smiles slightly. "However, would you be able to talk to Parke about the room arrangements, or keeping Waverley away from me, perhaps we could be in business."

So he  _is_  bothered by not sharing a room with Engarde. Very much so; it's seeping from his barely-visible cracks; he's good, but he's not  _that_  good. I want to ask him about it. But this secret, whatever it is, bothers me.

But knowing Gavin, it would be something simple and stupid, and he'd get what he wanted if I just agreed with him.

  
And it would prove to Engarde-- and everyone else here-- that I  _am_  corrupt.

"Mr. Gavin," I tell him sharply. I have no time for this  _shit_. For these games. 

"Yes?"

"This is a therapy session-- not your chance to attempt manipulating things in this prison to your favour." I glare at him, unable to help it, and he nods.

"I will not enter into negotiations with you," I tell him. 

"Which is perfectly acceptable," he says. "I respect your professional integrity."

So he doesn't want to offend me. Just like he didn't when he didn't tell me about what he'd been doing to his younger brother. I feel vaguely bothered by the  _secret_ , this thing I've been aware of but have forgotten in a space of months. 

It probably isn't that significant if it hasn't surfaced. Gavin wants to play with fear of the unknown, not with tangible truths because he doesn't have any left, any more.

"Thankyou." 

We still have twenty minutes left. 

"Is there anything else you'd like to talk about?" I ask.

"Yes," he says. I wait.

"I'm still concerned about Engarde," he says gravely. He's desperate now, trying to plead a case in twenty minutes, ceasing the mind games. "If you can not recommend he be moved to my cell, I'd honestly prefer him to be moved to protective custody."

"We've talked about this before," he says.

"I know," he says bitterly and seriously. "And giving Waverley the role of watching over us isn't making him any safer on the unit," he continues. "Perhaps Waverley is bothered and taunted, but perhaps I'd prefer Engarde to be under the supervision of staff who don't have bias."

I blink then, surprised, stunned for a moment.

"And I understand the futility of that statement, too," he says. "Because people are only human, and everyone has bias. But Engarde..."

He doesn't sound threatening or scared, but bothered and shaken. As though he's trying to reason with me.

"Are you hoping that saving Engarde will absolve you of your other sins?" I ask. Is he? Perhaps.

And then he laughs, a devillish, cruel cackle. "No," he says. "That would be pathetic and futile of me. But Engarde... Engarde doesn't deserve to die because Gant has a vendetta and Wellington wants to be seen as more than a favour whore and Crescend is annoyed that I got to do things with Klavier that he didn't." He raises an eyebrow, cheeky and nervously amused. Utterly remorseless, in a way that sickens me.

"Why doesn't he deserve to die?" I ask him, ignoring the macabre humour which I suspect was employed to keep me from poking any further at the truth.

He doesn't say anything, and slowly, his serene face turns stormy.

"I care about my fellow man," he offers vaguely, insincerely.

I look understandably puzzled. 

"Somewhat," he continues. "And I owe Engarde something nice."

"Protective custody won't necessarily solve all his problems."

"I realise that it might not save him from himself," Gavin says with a sigh. "As I realise that if he's moved, I may not see him again. But there's little else I can do for him."

And there's a desperate crack in his voice, almost pleading with me. 

"You love him, don't you?" 

He glares back at me. "I'll see you next week, I suppose," he says. "And I hope we'll have something more substantial to discuss then."

He stands up and walks to the door, offering a polite but cold "good day, doctor" and he pushes against the door at the same time Lily's knocking on the other side.

 

 

 

I should be used to surprises by now and I suppose I am. Is this the point where things cease to be surprises? Expect the unexpected and you're not caught off-guard?

I feel like Kristoph Gavin is smiling down at me, serene and pale and humble, like the moon-- when I'm thinking like that. I don't like it at all. But I spend enough time with him that starting to absorb that voice, starting to hear it in the back of my head doesn't come as a surprise.

The surprises are the things you don't expect. They're not stories of abuse and horror and murder and criminal activities no one else knows about. They're little things.

Like seeing Dr. Will Smeer, sitting in the staffroom, at the seat I tend to occupy when I manage to get a seat-- when I sneak down for a coffee at the end of my shift.

I usually expect the hustle and bustle of people getting ready to leave around me, Waverley complaining about something, Lily's dry laugh, Towne's even and sensible commentary, Parke's cynical enthusiasm. 

Instead: silence. Smeer looks like he's not used to the room and its smell of burnt coffee and newspapers and whatever someone was heating up for lunch several hours ago, as though he'd prefer to be back with the chemical stench of the hospital wing. He looks out of place and uncomfortable.

My initial thoughts about the situation are sympathetic: I'm used to seeing new faces around here, and I'm used to most of them not lasting very long. Prison work boasts a high turnover rate. Those new faces either become hardened ones quickly, or they disappear from the employee pool for good-- and most of the new ones are blooded on the less stressful units. 

Like Smeer was. And the thoughts which occur to me beyond the initial sympathetic ones aren't nice; they're territorial and aggressive. Then there's the question:  _What the hell is he doing here, and why now?_

I smile at him, though, trying to read his expression as his eyes meet mine. 

"Hello, Doctor Smeer." It's incredibly difficult to  _not_  feel displaced by him, to feel like the older man being overthrown by a younger, fitter, slightly perkier one.

"Hi." His voice is confident. "I still haven't really managed to talk to you that much yet, have I?" His question sounds like an apology, and I'm suspicious. "I've been so busy with my caseload that--"

I don't say anything, but I go to make myself the coffee I intended on getting myself before I saw him there. My face remains still as I add water to the cup; I'm not flinching. 

"Anyway," he continues. "I've came here to pick up some of yours."

I raise an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"See, I've heard you have some extreme cases down here," he says with a slightly enthusiastic smile. "Lifers, rather than petty crims; guys who were expecting the chair or the noose or something-- you worked in acceptance therapy, didn't you?"

"I pioneered the model used here."

"Great." There's a sick sort of smile on his face. "It would have been interesting seeing your techniques on the field-- it's not like many of the states still have capital punishment now and..."

My cup is full, and I have this weird, incredibly protective pull regarding my clients which grabs me unawares. It's strange; a couple of years ago, getting them used to being executed, taking care of their mental health so, in a way, they were healthy enough to execute-- was just all in a day's work. Now, the idea of any of them-- Engarde, Wellington, Gavin-- being  _killed_ \-- is vaguely alarming. And they're not just some sort of education tool for this guy to look at and read about until he decides to become a professor. 

I sit down, and I suppose the expression on my face is less than inviting, so he stops right there. "deNong and the health team were talking with me this afternoon," he says. "Apparently I've inherited some of your caseload."

I hadn't heard that. He doesn't know that I don't know that. "Right," I say with a nod. The last thing I want is for this little prick to see me surprised, though I feel like an enraged guard dog at that moment, my body tense and wired for action, protective for something I don't really have personal reason to want to guard. I've smelled danger and some primal side of me wants a fight. 

It's purely territorial, I tell myself.

"I was going to ask, too-- are there any you're especially attached to?" He watches me carefully. "Any you'd prefer to work with? Because I can swap with you if you need--"

"Who would  _you_  like to work with?" 

  
If he's deNong's godson, he's already been awarded the cases he wants. 

"I'd kind of like to meet Kristoph Gavin," he says with a starfucker smile and a nervous laugh. "I've heard he's quite the piece of work."

I don't know whether I'm amused or aghast. 

"You do know what he did, didn't you?"

"Which part?"

I assume he's talking about Wellington and the assault, or about the interactions with Engarde, or the still-persisting rumours that he killed Redd White.

"The stuff he  _didn't_  get charged with," he says. 

"How do you know about that?"

  
I can envision Gavin finding out that others know that he was molesting Klavier, that it's documented in black and white somewhere, his own admission-- and the fear that would be coursing through him. This is the place where rumours of such things can earn you beatings from every other inmate in the prison-- the fact that there is already rivalry between Gant and Gavin which is well-documented-- and that no one knows Klavier Gavin's past-- or cares about a prosecutor very much-- is probably Gavin's only saving grace.

I almost feel sorry for him; at the moment, it's speculation only because of the way Gavin responded to Gant's taunt-- confirmed, it would be a signed death warrant.

How the hell did Smeer know?

"Someone in the hospital overheard one of the others talking about how he was blackmailing that lawyer he accused with a sex tape," he says. "And that the lawyer knew  _everything_  and just kept his mouth shut."

I want to laugh. That's so Gavin, but so petty and simplistic, too much so for him. Furthermore, a sex tape could implicate himself in whatever was on it, and that seems oddly... undignified. Gavin has more pizazz and caution than a B-grade celebrity.

"Where did you hear that?" I can't help but ask.

"Chip Tracks, that guy from B-wing who had that abscess in his leg was on the ward when Matt Engarde was in there." He nods, smiling. "Actually-- you deal with  _him_ , too, don't you?"

And he wants Engarde as well, doesn't he? I think my heart stops for another second, and I blink, feeling like my work is strewn about, one moment an elegant, well-organised house of cards, the next moment, a flat indecipherable mess at my feet. 

"Yes," I offer evenly to his enthusiasm. "I have dealt with Engarde for years."

"He threw something at you a few weeks ago, didn't he?" I don't like the confidence and the smirk in his voice. 

"And you had him doped to the eyeballs on Straphalazine." I can't help but pause, a vague threat in my voice. " _Yes_ ," I say vaguely. "I remember that."

"I always thought he'd be a risk to himself or someone else."

I narrow my eyes at him. "I've known Engarde's history," I tell him. "For years. His aggression is usually brought on by ingestion of drugs on the unit, and his self-harm issues appear to be caused by declining mental health which can be better addressed with other medication.  _Not_  major antipsychotics."

"He was presenting as agitated and aggressive when I met him."

"When was that?"

"After he was admitted to the hospital."

 _He was probably worried about Gavin_.

"He didn't know you and he often tests new staff with aggression because he perceives them as threatening." My hand reaches my coffee cup, but I don't drink any.

"And he knew you for years and still decided to attack you?" Smeer gives me the kind of look a winning chess player wants to direct to his opponent on national television but doesn't. "Please-- what will it be?"

"We were speaking about contentious issues which has raised his anxiety levels," I tell him, teeth gritted, forcing myself to keep calm. "And it  _was_  only a cup of chocolate milk." I pause, reiterating my point. "Engarde has been restrained and sent to isolation numerous times since arriving here," I explain. "He is easily brought down by a regular team of workers-- quite simply, there was  _no need_  for chemical intervention." I narrow my eyes at him again, unimpressed.

 

"I understand that we're working with a budget here," he says smoothly. "And that if Engarde had hit someone, the worker's compensation might have cost far more than two mils of Straphalazine." He smirks.

"He's not learning anything from it, and how to address his own behaviour, though."

"So?" He shrugs. This is the point where I find myself intensely disliking Will Smeer. "Who cares? He's spending the rest of his life in here. Consequences for his bad behaviour mean nothing in the bigger picture." His face hardens then, and he's not just some naive, excitable  _kid_  looking forward to working with the big, scary sociopaths. Unfortunately, I've underestimated him. "But in here, this budget means everything-- and it does to the both of us, too."

I sip my coffee, feeling my face fall and the apprehension coming into my eyes. For a split second, I'm silent; my worst fears are confirmed; I'm being run out. He feels like he is, but that's the plan; to get him to prove himself, work smarter and faster and cheaper; to make him the better man and to encourage him to cut as many corners as possible.

"Anyway," he says brightly, "I guess if you have any strategies for dealing with them, it'd be good to know-- I've got the A-Gs, you've got the rest of the client base." He smiles again, and I feel ill. In that second, he realises that this is news to me.

"I suppose they didn't email you about it?"

"Not yet," I tell him. 

"I'm sure you'll hear from them soon."

I sip my coffee, wondering how well my former clients are going to respond to this.

 

 

 

The phone's ringing as I step into the house, as though whoever is calling  _knows_  that I've just stepped inside. 

I'm exhausted and unhappy, overwhelmed with a sense of loss which I don't quite feel I'm allowed to have, along with a sense of unfairness about everything. It feels like I've lost a lot lately, goodbyes haven't been said but relationships have changed, and I had no say in any of it.

And they're losses which were never  _mine_  to begin with. Liz has every right to marry her partner and to find happiness; as a professional, I have an impersonal relationship with my clients, one which will come to an end at some point in time.

I dislike my clingy childish entitlement.

I look at the phone, the green light flashing with the  _brr_  of the ring in the darkness, and sigh, picking it up automatically, hoping that it's a telemarketer or some college kid wanting me to participate in market research.

My hopes, too, are dashed. It's Lauryn.

"Hello stranger." Her voice is oddly comforting. 

"Hi Lauryn." She sounds so much brighter and perkier than I do, but there's a touch of sarcasm in her voice. 

I find out why a moment later.

"I haven't been ignoring you-- I've been bus--"

"It's okay," she says. "You've been busy, I've been busy..." Her cheerfulness drops to something almost scandalised. "Want to hear what's been keeping me busy lately?"

"I suppose it's more amusing than my busyness."

"That depends on your sense of humour." 

"What's happened?" 

"It seems that art which was parodying life is now being parodied by life."

"Come again?" My fingernails are on my face, I'm scratching the side of my head absentmindedly. "I never got that symbolic arts degree stuff."

She chuckles. "It seems that the rumours about two of my clients who were involved with one another now have some truth to them..."

Trying to remember who Lauryn's clients all are is futile, and my brain is tired and malfunctioning under pressure. "The lawyers?" I ask, thinking about the lawyer I've just lost as a client.

"Uh-huh."

"I thought they were breaking up."

"Not  _those_  lawyers," she says with a giggle, like she's incredulous and wrongly amused by the whole thing. "The  _other_  lawyers."

"Klavier Gavin and...?"

That's when her voice drops and I realise that the bewilderment and amusement and good-natured humour is much the same as mine when my working life shows me completely bizarre things. "Yeah," she tells me. "They've moved in together, and... I think you'll be seeing more of Klavier again."

"Let me guess," I ask sarcastically. "The Gavinners have reformed and they're doing a comeback world tour."

She laughs. "That's not funny--  _no_ \-- apparently there's some concert thing which the prison does once a year-- Klavier wants to make an appearance."

The Smile Time Variety Show. Fuck.

"Why?"

"Daryan Crescend-- his former bandmate-- has apparently written a song for him and Klavier wants to hear it."

I try convincing myself, in that moment, that it would be mere coincidence, that Gavin may not even notice his brother there. That Daryan and Klavier are friends now, that there's nothing to the visit beyond what it looks like. That there will be so many other people at the Smile Time Variety Show that Klavier will not stand out. 

Yeah,  _right_. Coincidence makes for a convenient excuse.

"That's..." I want to say something sarcastic, but I'm too tired. 

"...Something I have tried advising him not to do. And his, erm,  _friend_  doesn't want him there, either," she awkwardly adds.

"Please don't tell me that friend is--" And it creeps up on me then, fading into clarity. Life imitating artistic parody.

"Fuck. It's Apollo Justice, isn't it?"

 

"He moved into Klavier's apartment," she says guiltily. "Initially it was to assist with his recovery because the nurse was getting on his nerves, only I think there was more to it-- my instinct suggests that he was sleeping with the nurse who thought it sounded like fun, Klavier got attached, nurse became nervous, and Klavier was more damaged for the experience."

"Wonderful."

"And Justice needed to get out of the apartment they were living in; from my understanding, the other two lawyers are still negotiating who gets what and are untangling themselves from--" she stops. "Shit," she says quietly, just realising. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. People break up." In the back of my mind, though, I'm remembering the situation with Liz. We parted so amicably, the  _stuff_  was barely an issue. Anna was, but I wanted Anna to be happy. Logic dictated that she'd be happier with her mother who wasn't working the crazy hours I was, and that she deserved that. I folded without even sighing.

I wonder about the lawyers, about what their arguments had turned into, about how things had soured between them. Did they have regrets about the relationship, or did a ghostly sort of sadness just linger over everything like a fog of disbelief, did they still care about one another and just want the other to be happy? Or had their situation been more common, loaded with hurt and misunderstandings and a get-out-of-my-life rage?

Lauryn cuts back to Justice, very quickly and diplomatically.

"He's always trusted Justice-- he knows where he stands with him, they can have a few laughs, they're  _close_ \-- I just didn't think they were  _that_  close, but... I thought wrong, right?" She doesn't sound pleased, and then comes the frantic note. "I just see a lot of hurt coming out of this, and I can't do anything about it-- all they really have in common is that they're both lawyers and they've both been used and screwed around by your client."

"He's not my client any more."

It's so automatic, saying it like that, and yet it feels so surreal. 

Days after Anna was born, I remember ringing the hospital and having to ask about  _my daughter_  and the words tumbling from my mouth so easily, and the moment of shock at the weight of them hitting me once they were out. That's what this feels like. My  _ex client_. A title that has changed my identity.

"You turfed him?" she asks curiously. "Or did he lose psychiatry privileges? I saw there was something in the paper the other day about prison health budgets being cut because--"

When I don't reply, when I don't confirm anything, she pokes from a different angle. "He's still  _alive_ , isn't he?" she asks.

"He was reassigned to another psychiatrist."

Lauryn gasps. It's an immediate sound, as though she's let go of a glass of wine, and the glass is imported antique crystal and the wine is vintage something-er-other red which you'll never see let alone have the chance to taste again, and the floor it's about to fall onto is as hard as granite and just as unforgiving and it's covered in a thin layer of pristine white carpet.

"What happened?" she asks after what feels like too long.

I sigh, and in that moment I realise I need to explain.  _Reassigned_  sounds so ambiguous, maybe it was my fault, maybe I was corrupt or unprofessional. "I'm being phased out, I think. And replaced with a younger, cheaper psych who thinks bombing people out with major antipsychotics is a great idea."

There's a silence on the other end of the line, and Lauryn replies in an exhale. "Shit. And here I am gossiping about--"

"Don't worry about it. I probably need the distraction."

"Yeah."

Changing the subject ever-so-slightly, she asks me, tentative and nervous. "So what are you going to  _do_?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean regarding working there?"

"What everyone else does in there, I suppose; just wait for the powers that be to decide my fate."

She chuckles. "That sounds so maudlin."

"It's true, though." I could go into long-winded detail talking about the politics of the workplace, about deNong and Parke and their issues with various inmates and other workers, about Lily and Gavin and Will Smeer, but I am too tired. "At least in private practice, no one else is making your budgetary decisions."

"But you always wanted to work in the public sector."

"Technically I'm not, it's a privately owned prison."

  
"You know what I mean."

"So what next-- street kids? Drug addicts? Abuse victims?"

I chuckle softly to myself; Lauryn knows me too well. "Something like that, I guess," I tell her quietly, though this conversation has cemented something: my days as a prison psychiatrist are numbered. I don't want to think about that; for too long, my job has been a significant part of my identity, it's  _who I am_. It trumped every other thing in my life, for better or worse, and now, like my marriage and my family, it's leaving on me without even a whimper of protest from me. All I can do is watch as I'm eroded. And then try to rebuild with whatever I'm left with afterwards.

  
We don't meet up, we don't even make a date to. I don't know if Lauryn didn't think to, or if she intuitively knows that I need my space for a while. 

  
Lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, I try to consider the positives; perhaps this is a blessing in disguise, maybe I can stop having the nightmares, maybe I can concentrate on my other clients more impartially, maybe this will give me a chance to reflect and deal with the rest of my life. Maybe I'll get a chance to make up for lost time, work less hours, start thinking about where I'm going to go once I'm shafted out of there.

I think to myself of the A-G clients; they've given Smeer an apparently small caseload for the time being, it's deceptive, though.

Banks. Behr. Callander. Crescend. Engarde. Gant. Gavin. 

Men who I've come to know, who I've developed a rapport with; gone.  _Reassigned_. And they probably have no idea about it right now.

 

 

 

 

Wellington sits across the table from me, arms folded, a haughty expression on his face. 

"You had something to do with it, didn't you?" he asks.

The door shuts behind us, and my eyes widen. I have no idea why Wellington hastily requested an appointment with me, why he's so agitated or what conspiracy I'm involved with, but in that moment, I'm concerned for my safety. His eyes blaze at me angrily. 

"What are you suggesting, Mr. Wellington?"

"It was Cumdumpster and the psycho, wasn't it?" he sniffs. And he chuckles, eyes suddenly sparkling, leaning in, interested. "Perhaps those rumours were true," he says. He's flirting with me; there's a seductive lilt in his voice and he licks his lips. "You were fucking Engarde, weren't you?" His voice is singsong teasing.  _Doctor and Engarde, sitting in a tree, F-U-C-K-I-N-G..._

I blink, disgusted, trying to ascertain whether or not he believes it. 

"And his psycho boyfriend found out and you got threatened, right?" He smiles lecherously at me, revealing straight, but slowly blackening teeth. "That's okay-- everyone knows I'm better than him, anyway." 

I say nothing.

"So what will buy me a clean bill of health and some of the good meds, doctor?" he asks, fingers twirling through the spiral of hair by his cheek.

"I will assure you, Mr. Wellington," I say tightly, "That nothing of the sort has happened or ever  _will_  happen." 

He looks down at my hands, folded on the desk in front of me, and notices something. His gaze slowly moves up to my eyes, and he smiles nastily. "Last time I saw you, you were wearing a wedding band," he says carefully.

I flinch, flooded with anger. No one noticed the wedding band; Gavin and Engarde may have, but they always had the decency to avoid mentioning it. Or it never particularly interested them.

The wedding band was a strange symbol for me: I slip the damn thing on when I was feeling stressed. A mask to the world, a suggestion that I have something comforting waiting for me at home, a life outside of this one. An assurance that I am not a career, an assurance to  _myself_  that at some stage, someone loved me exclusively and I'd loved someone enough to commit to them.

In a place like this, a wedding band is something normal to cling to.

"It fucked up your marriage, didn't it?" he asks with a sneer. "Your wife likely didn't appreciate that you came home with something nasty courtesy of everyone's favourite fuck, right?"

"Mr. Well--"

"It's true, though, isn't it?" he asks. With triumph in his voice, as though he's figured it out. "And you're apparently working less, which makes me wonder-- you're  _sick_ , aren't you?" His eyelashes flutter. "Are you claiming workers' comp for it?"

"Mr.  _Wellington_." I'm surprised when my fist meets the desktop and so is he, judging from the way he flinches back.

"It-it's all right," he says. "Engarde will be taken care of." He's settled again, reaching out to me, long slender fingers reaching out to try and stroke my cheek. I push my chair backwards.

"Mr.  _Wellin--_ " There are so many things I want to slow down and ask about, but he cuts me off again.

"I can take care of that disease-ridden prick much quicker if  _you_  could do me a favour, though."

"I don't  _do_  favours." My voice is hard, my eyes steely and furious.

"Sure you don't." Wellington rolls his eyes theatrically. "And it's nothing that would get you in trouble anyway," he says. "I just want to be seeing the  _other_  shrink."

 _I guess we have something in common_ , I think angrily.

"Why?" I'm suspicious.

  
"Because he's cute and he gives out the good stuff." He flashes a smile. "He's all uptight and proper and cute and just-out-of-university, and apparently he doesn't like boys, either. Bets are on around here as to who's going to turn him around, and I've got two hundred riding on it." His voice hardens and he grimaces at me. "And apparently he's already seeing Cumdumpster which gives him an advantage I don't have."

He smiles at me again and I'm slack-jawed and horrified.

"Is-- there anything I can actually offer you in a professional capacity?" I ask him.

"Nope," he tells me brightly. "Just that one."

"I think we're done here," I tell him tersely. "Please don't bother me again for trivial requests, Mr. Wellington."

He blinks at me nastily. "It's not like you've taken on  _more_  work," he says sweetly.

 

 

 

It's the afternoon and I can barely concentrate. Moreau is seeing me for a few minutes again, wanting me to confirm his medication levels.

Is this what I've been reduced to by Smeer's presence? A pill dispenser?

"I tried talking to Parke about it but he says I'm paranoid," he says, and I blink, looking up at him. "He was the one who suggested that I see you about my meds. So I talked to Gavin--"

I'm looking at him as he's talking. Surely Moreau isn't involved in the stupid game of Seducing the New Shrink. For one thing, he hangs around with the wrong crowd-- an  _invisible_  crowd, he has no one-- for another, I can't imagine someone so completely boring trying to seduce  _anyone_.

"Gavin believes me," he continues. "He sounded interested, but I think he may have just been being polite or it may be the fact that he does appear to be interested in everything. He was a lawyer, you know?"

Even when Tom Moreau is excited, he speaks in almost monotone. I'd never noticed it before.

"I don't think Gavin's interested in breaking out of here." My response is vague, and I wonder then, did I breach privacy regulations? I can barely bring myself to care. And I don't think Gavin would use knowledge of the electrical systems here to aid an escape. He's not that stupid.

"I don't, either." I blink. What the hell are we talking about?

"Yeah," he says, perking up as I look at him sharply. "I don't think  _Gavin_ , you know-- my cellmate-- the  _lawyer_ \-- is thinking about using the information to try and escape. Not that he could, really."

"What could he do?" I ask. I'm suddenly alert, clinging for information.

"I  _told you_ ," he says, exasperated. "The worst he could do is probably short out the power to a small section of the unit for a little while. And that's minor stuff; lighting, hot water, that sort of thing. There's not much point in risking doing something like that because the penalties for tampering with prison electrical equipment attract are somewhat hefty." He sounds so earnest, and evidently hasn't considered the lifers. "It's pretty pointless, though it bothers me that there's a  _flaw_  in the system and they're not that interested in actually doing anything about it."

He sounds like a hall monitor reporting a minor offence to a principal. I do my best not to yawn.

"Did you tell Parke?" I ask.

"Yeah." He starts playing with his hands, uncomfortable. "And Parke asked why I cared and said I'd go to solitary for a month if I did anything, and then when I assured him I wouldn't, he told me to talk to you about my meds."

I nod. "Okay-- so... you're not depressed right now?"

"Not really." He looks confused. Perhaps Parke was  _joking_  about asking me about meds-- an unfunny joke, and the sort of thing a literal interpreter like Moreau wouldn't laugh at anyway.

"Good." I don't know what else to say, but thankfully Moreau fills in for me. "I get out in two weeks," he says. There's a slight smile on his face. "I've started getting things sorted out to return to on the outside; I'll be living with Mom and Dad for a while, but it should be okay." He looks at me thoughtfully and smiles. "I think I might learn how to become an electrician." 

"That sounds like a good idea."

"Yeah. And when people ask how I got into it, I can say I did while I was studying the systems used in prisons, can't I?" He looks bothered again. "I still wish I knew if there  _was_  a flaw in the system; I'm sure there is; I think they wired it incorrectly and--"

I feel like admitting that we probably don't have the budget to fix it if there is a flaw anyway. But I don't, I just nod and decide to keep up a professional appearance. To not complain about the way things run around here, to just let the chips fall where they will.

"I guess we'll never know," I say lightheartedly, shrugging. "I can make a note of it and tell Parke, but--"

"Can you? That would be wonderful."

I note it down in my diary, suddenly feeling a sense fo displacement. I've gone from unravelling mysteries of the psyche to a messanger boy and a joke and a source of gossip.

Moreau leaves with a cheerful smile and I sigh to myself. I'm being smoked out. If I don't leave of my own accord, I'm going to be pushed into leaving for fear of losing it.

 

 

 

 

"I don't like him."

"Why not?" Lily looks across the table at Hamm, her hands dealing with the bagel in front of her as I open the staff room door. "He seems efficient."

"He seems  _stupid_. And I don't mean in a  _stupid_  sense, I just mean that he doesn't really get what he's dealing with here. He's all book smarts and no people skills."

Lily falls silent then. 

Years ago, someone made a  _faux pas_  regarding Hamm; he'd vaguely alluded to the fact that he was illiterate, and someone-- I forget who-- had dropped a comment about an illiterate inmate being stupid. Hamm had responded with a cold, unfriendly sort of dignity, his voice calm and his eyes still. It's possible that I can't remember who the person was who made the comment because they quit not long after that incident; my memory was of Hamm's reaction more than anything else.

Every now and then he gives off the sense that he's aware that people think he's stupid and that depite this, he ignores it, holding his head high and not measuring someone's intelligence by their literacy skills. Likewise, he seems indifferent to book smarts as a measure of ability.

And he doesn't like Smeer. That interests me.

"At least we might cut down on having people wasti--" Both of them notice me then and the staff room falls silent. " _Hi_." 

I wave and smile. "You two talking about my replacement, are you?" 

Lily looks uncomfortable, Hamm laughs. 

"It's all right," I say. "I don't mind, we work together, we--"

"I don't like him," Hamm says gruffly. "He's got his head stuck halfway up his ass and he talks like he's out of a movie about privileged fraternity fucks." It's unusual for Hamm to swear like that.

"Gavin doesn't like him either," Lily offers, "Which is going to make my job as his case worker a  _lot_  harder now-- if he doesn't trust his professional workers--"

"Engarde don't like him either," Hamm says. "Apparently he went into the session booked for him, sat down with his arms crossed and called Smeer a drug-happy cocksucker and walked out." He smiles slightly. "Shortest psych report I've recieved since working here."

"Not particularly good for Engarde, though," Lily says darkly. "Which disrupts things at  _my_  end of the line."

"How are they?" I ask.

"Still pretty annoyed that they can't share a room. Stealing every moment they can to spend time together when the unit's not on lockdown," she says. There's a smile in her voice. "It's almost touching."

"You're just saying that because of what Waverley saw this morning..." Hamm chuckles to himself. "It's probably some grand plan they have, thinking if they annoy Waverley enough, they'll be shoved back in a room together--"

"Moreau's leaving in a couple of weeks--" I point out.

"Currently Gavin's annoying Parke to be moved to the mail room, and Engarde's annoying Parke to  _not_  move him to the mail room because he wants to work in the morgue instead."

"Given some of Engarde's statements about the dead, I would advise against that," I point out.

"Exactly," says Lily. "And I think Parke's with you on that. Come to think of it, though, I don't want Gavin in the mail room  _either_  if the rumours on the unit are to believed."

Everyone nods, and the door opens behind me. Waverley steps in, looking flustered. 

"Hey, doc," he says, noticing that I'm there. "You think you could give the lovebirds some of that shit Callander's on?" He's in a foul mood. "They're like a couple of lovesick teenagers."

"You just didn't like what you saw this morning," Lily says. It's evident that she either finds it amusing or doesn't care. "Just tell them to knock it off and they do."

Waverley's face reddens and he scowls at her. "Like hell they do." He roughly pulls a chair out from the table, letting it screech as the legs are dragged across the floor. "I want it noted that they're not allowed in the bathroom together."

"How are you going to organise that?" Lily asks. "And what happens when one-- or the  _other_  decides to sue for discrimination?"

  
"It's not discrimination, it's public decency." Waverley sits down. "They can do what they like in private, but I don't get paid enough to watch that shit."

"They don't  _get_  private here." Hamm sounds almost sympathetic. "And-- I haven't seen nothing from them." He shrugs. "The most I've seen is a few casual touches."

"You say it like you're missing out," Lily chuckles.

"Yeah, right." 

"I want this shit  _stopped_ ," Waverley snaps. He looks at me. "You're on good terms with them-- you go sort it out."

"My hands are tied," I tell him. "I don't work with them anymore."

His mouth opens and then shuts, and there's a strange look on his face then, a flighty, bothered sort of expression. I'm worried he's about to repeat the sort of things Wellington was insinuating earlier in the day but he doesn't, barring a small grunt from him, and a mumble about talking to Parke, he falls silent.

We're interrupted by the cry of a duress alarm. Lily looks up at the screen and sighs, realising that it's  _our_  unit, and leaves her hardly-eaten bagel on the table. "Break's cut short, I guess." She pushes her chair in.

Hamm's already at the door with Waverley. 

The three of them leave and I look up at the screens, the scene they're tending to not captured by any of the cameras I'm viewing. Surely enough, I'll hear about it in a few moments.


	18. Things, Sliding

I hear the shout of "Lockdown!" over the alarm. I can see, though the crack in the partially opened door, what's happening; men are walking away, docile and placid, being led to their rooms; staff are busy restraining the inmates involved-- I can't see them, but there are occasional flashes of prison uniforms amongst the scuffle. Someone switches off the duress alarm. Then there's the unmistakable voice that I don't want to be hearing right now.

"Fuck you, cunt! This is all your fault!" 

And then the response. "Consider yourself  _dead_ , Cumdumpster. Because the rest of us do." Wellington sounds so sneering and controlled, and it's then that I see they're being pulled in opposite directions; Wellington is being restrained by Waverley and is featherlight and not resisting, barely requiring restraint; Engarde is flailing about angrily, a raccoon caught in a trap, furious and spitting and snarling as four staff attempt to drag him away. 

I feel a pang of pity for him as I shut the door quietly and hear the slam of the isolation cell and his yells become silenced. 

 

Five minutes later, Lily, Waverley, Towne and Parke appear back in the staff room. I've just made myself a coffee.

"So Hamm's doing obs on Engarde," Parke tells the rest of them-- "We might cease the lockdown so we can do dinner normally if there are no more issues."

"What about Wellington?" I ask.

Once again, everyone turns to look at me. 

"Wellington walked," Waverley says with a shrug. "After an hour, he's out."

"What started it?" Lily doesn't look pleased.

"Apparently Engarde telling Wellington that he was to blame for the shift in psychiatric services."

There's an awkward silence and everyone in the room looks at me. "It didn't have anything to do with me."

"He misses his doctor," Waverley snorts. "How touching."

I sip my coffee and don't say anything.

"My aim now is to keep Gavin from intervening," Lily says darkly. "Because he's got that visit with Apollo Justice coming up next week and if he jeopardises that--"

"Who gives a shit?" Waverley snaps. "He was probably involved in that mess."

" _Prove it_." Lily hasn't sat down again. Waverley  _has_ , taking the seat she was previously occupying, pushing her plate with the bagel on it aside. 

Waverley glares at her and says nothing. 

"Look," Parke says. "Right now we've got some tensions on the unit and..."

"We'd have a whole lot less if we just got one of them  _out_  of there." Towne's still puffing from the exertion. "I say we move Engarde to protective and this shit will blow out the window."

"Until we have one pissed off Gavin on our hands demanding to know why," Parke says.

"It doesn't stop the tensions between Gant and Gavin either," Towne points out.

"Yeah." Lily's arms are still folded. "Or do you honestly think it  _will_?" She rolls her eyes.

"I do, actually. Get him out, shuffle up the unit dynamic a bit, Gavin doesn't have a power base and he'll behave himself."

"And Gant still has Behr and Tigre and Plan and Wellington," Lily says dryly. "And they want to kill him."

"What, you afraid of losing another case?" Waverley says it casually and shrugs, but now Parke is glaring at him, too. 

"That was uncalled for."

"Maybe so, but let's not get too sensitive here." He looks unperturbed. "Let's look at what we're dealing with: these guys are hardly model citizens or else they wouldn't be here, right? These scumbags are murderers and terrorists and rapists and child molesters-- why should it bother me if they finish one another off?"

"True as that may be," Parke says coldly, "It doesn't detract from the point that we're here to see that they do their time and to ensure the safety of the unit." He looks grossly unimpressed, and I glance at Lily. I'm expecting to see a smile, a hint of amusement that he was put in his place. But she doesn't look pleased; she looks disgusted and cold. Her arms are still folded.

  
"Could we move  _Gant_?" she asks innocently.

Waverley glares at her.

"Hey-- hey-- we're not moving  _anyone_ ," Parke says quickly. "That was a hypothetical-- until I give the word or I get it from higher up, nothing's changing. Gavin and Engarde are still on obs--"

"And that's another thing," Waverley snaps. "If I catch those perverts playing hide the proverbial sausage again, I'm going to be sick."

Lily sniggers behind a hand.

"Okay," Parke says slowly. "You've said they're behaving inappropriately-- I hear your concerns and--"

"Can we make a ruling that they can't be in the bathroom alone?"

"Done." Parke grins casually, and Waverley looks shocked into disbelief.

"Just like that?" he asks.

"Just like that," Parke says with a smile. "I'll add it to their notes; Gavin and Engarde should not be in the bathroom together if at all possible, and never by themselves."

Waverley steps back, smiling slightly. "Oh--okay." He nods. "Thankyou."

"My pleasure." Parke doesn't sound happy. "Now is there anything el--"

"We need to do something about the tension," Towne says. "We're going to have staff feeling apprehensive about the Smile Time Variety Show when that comes up, and with visitors on the unit and the inmates outnumbering us, they've got the advantage. And when staff feel unsafe, they  _smell_  the fear."

Parke nods. "Good point," he says. "I'll think on that one-- in the mean time, if anyone has any ideas, yell out, okay?"

"Cancel the show?" Towne asks.

Everyone else casts him a look of  _no way in hell._  I sip my coffee.

"And incur the wrath of Damon Gant who's making balloon animals, and Daryan Crescend who's been working on that song he's doing for weeks now like he's back on the A-list? I don't think so."

Towne merely nods. "Noted," he says.

"All right," Parke says, nodding to all of us, "Break time's over, if anyone needs a debrief, we'll talk--  _does_  anyone need a debrief?" Apparently not-- no one says anything. "Great-- I'll see you all tomorrow." 

"You leaving now?" Lily asks him.

"I was meant to have left two hours ago."

I stand up as the rest of them minus Parke are heading out onto the floor. 

"Hey," Parke says quietly when the door shuts behind us. "Come outside for a smoke?"

It's a friendly enough offer, but I feel apprehensive. Even though there's not much of it left, it feels like my day is just about to get worse.

 

 

 

"I need to know something," he tells me urgently as we're away from the prison and across the carpark, walking towards where his ancient Buick is parked. 

"What?" I'm trying to keep my voice even, but I'm already suspecting the question I'm going to be asked.

"Look," he says with a sigh. "I need to hear this from you yourself, and I  _want_  to because it's going to put a bunch of things in order for me when I do..." He's fumbling, nervous. He doesn't want to ask me. 

Nastily, I wait, not helping him at all.

Parke clears his throat after exhaling. A long, quick line of smoke settles in the air once propelled from his lips, and he looks at me seriously in the dying sunlight. "You're straight, aren't you?"

It takes me a moment to work out in what  _sense_  he means; my initial response is to snort and look down at the finger where there used to be a wedding band; but in less than a second I realise what sort of  _straight_ he means. And I'm disgusted that he's asking, though a part of me can see why. I slowly turn to look up at him.

" _Yes_ ," I say testily.

"I thought so." His voice is grave. "You've been here for more than ten years and it makes no sense for you to change your tune now."

I wonder about that. In ten years I've not dealt with  _this_  level of drama before.

I nod, and he continues. "Someone on the unit's  _not_." 

I want to roll my eyes and point out that it's widely known that Engarde and Wellington have offered staff sexual favours for privileges and ignorance. But I don't; Parke obviously knows this as well.

"Word on the unit has it that it's you," he says. "And I'm wanting to know where the rumours are coming from."

"I'd appreciate that name, too," I mutter bitterly. "This isn't just my career at stake; it's my license... it's my own integrity and reputation."

He nods. "I was on B-unit the other day and I've heard some crazy shit." He talks with his hands, waving about with broad gestures. "Apparently Kristoph Gavin killed Acro Dingle as a favour to us because there's apparently no disabled access on our unit." I can't help but smile at that one, and Parke smiles too. It's so ridiculously stupid that it's funny. "And he apparently killed Redd White-- and he has shivs on his person and we've searched him dozens of times to no avail--" he stops. "You know anything about this?"

"No." I narrow my gaze. "I  _am_  aware that Matt Engarde bribed a staff member in order for Gavin to get an optometry appointment."

Parke laughs. "The optometrist? Len's about two hundred years old and probably can't even get it up any more," he says.

"Not the optometrist."

Parke looks bothered for a moment. "My money's on Towne or Waverley."

That's when I shake my head. "I don't buy it."

"Why not?"

"Because Towne's just a guy who comes in, does his job and goes home hoping to be doing your job one day," I say with a shrug. "And Waverley? That's too obvious."

Parke raises his eyebrows at me. "I'd have thought a shrink would be more insightful," he chides me. "Towne likes power-- I've seen him-- and he's smart enough to slide under the radar. And Waverley-- doth protesteth too much and all that. He'd probably just relish the idea of having Gavin or Engarde at his mercy."

"If he could stomach the fact that they're men and so is he."

"So you're saying he's too much of a homophobe to get off on someone throwing themself at him?"

I shrug. "I still don't buy it, though. Towne wouldn't risk his future here like that. Waverley wouldn't risk losing his job." It feels like I'm on shaky ground talking about people losing their jobs, like I'm casting stones whilst living in a glasshouse. I don't like it. "Waverley's not young," I point out, "and he's been here for ages-- there probably aren't many career options for the guy, and if you're the one writing his reference..."

Parke smiles nastily. "I'd be sending him straight to the welfare line," he says. "He's driving me crazy-- and that's on a good day."

I pause, lowering my voice. "You  _want_  it to be Waverley, don't you?" I ask.

And he says nothing.

  
"If it  _is_  Waverley-- or Towne-- or anyone else-- what are you going to do? And would it have anything to do with the rest of the rumours on the unit?"

"I don't know," he says. "I'd probably have a quiet word, give them time to explain themselves, and then give them the boot if I didn't get a reasonable answer."

I nod. "That sounds fair," I tell him. 

"If it's under duress from inmates or something, what do I do? Tell them off for not lagging?" He shakes his head. "This place eats into people," he says. "Changes them. Brings out their worst."

I nod. 

"Waverley pisses me off, though," he continues. "He just stirs up animosity, he hates most of the inmates anyway, and his...  _issues_ \--"

"We can't just blame him because he's convenient." I find myself in Parke's position, kind of hoping it  _is_  Waverley. 

"He's friends with deNong so it would be  _extremely_  convenient."

There's a brief silence between us and Parke drops what's left of his barely-touched cigarette, crushing it under his heel angrily.

"But Waverley has nothing against me," I tell him, "Nor does Towne, from my understanding-- so why would there be rumours circulating about  _me_?"

"Wishful thinking from some inmates?" he asks.

I think of Wellington. Yes, he seemed hopeful, but convinced, as well.

"You're in a powerful position,' he says. "You draft reports which may get people paroled. You get to prescribe medication which may or may not alleviate pain or be traded on the black market. You're as much a turnkey as the workers on the floor, sometimes."

He smiles at me coolly and I smile back. 

"If you can help me with any information," he says cryptically, "I'd appreciate it."

"Likewise." I turn around and start thinking about walking to my own car, getting out of here for the evening.

"I wonder what they're saying about the new guy?" he asks. In all the nonsense about rumours, I forgot to mention it. I'm too tired for more half-hearted conspiracies and conversation with Parke anyway, and a sinister side of me decides to say nothing to Parke, not just yet, anyway-- about Wellington and the others planning on turning around Smeer.

I pretend to not hear him, that I'm too far away and that it escaped me. It was an offhanded comment, not meant to be answered, I think, as I see my car come into my line of vision and I approach it.

  
By the time I'm in the front seat, I'm twitching with a strange combination of emotions: I'm hopeful that things may just turn out in my favour. I'm mildly repulsed with myself, too, though: I'd just told Parke that I wasn't corrupt. Parke had just told me that this place changed people.

It's as I'm driving away that I find myself wondering what Gavin would think; he'd likely play-- or not play-- this in precisely the way I have. To let things fall into place, possibly nudge them along, emerge quietly as a victor and yet an observer in someone else's downfall. With no witnesses and no jury, I could let this slip, couldn't I?

I find myself almost missing him, disgusted as I am.

 

 

 

Perhaps it's a blessing in disguise, I tell myself a few days later as I walk towards my office post-coffee break. I've certainly had calmer days lately than I have for months; but now I have time to grieve, time to sit back and reassess the utter patheticness and futility of my existence.

Hemphill tells me during a routine appointment, about his wife and his kids, and how he's looking forward to seeing them. Ruffer talks to me about how he's becoming a better person with anger management, how he's evolving, about how he wants to work in the system as a counsellor post-release, and I get lost in a barrage of questions about criminal records and whether it would be a viable dream for him.

And when I walk through the unit, hearing the unusual and mind-stopping notes of a guitar from one of the spare rooms, I can't help but poke my head in to see what's going on, who has another unrealised dream. The tune is melodic, and there's a tuneful hum following it.

It's Crescend. His gaze is focussed on his fingers and he looks nervous when he realises that he's got an audience-- which is about the same time that I realise I've been standing there listening to him for longer than I probably should have been. His hair is unstyled and dangling around his face, obscuring him, as though he's a dorky kid half-shy, half longing to be a rock star underneath the fact that he knows he's not very good.

The thing is, he  _is_  good. Maybe not good by his former standards, but genuine talent shines through: I feel a pang of remorse that I never asked him much about his career as a rock star. I heard about the glitz and the glamour; the  _sex_  (the drugs never appealed to Crescend, it seemed) --the rock and roll was all but a side issue, a non-shocking one, not a problem.

Crescend looks embarrassed, and I can see Denham across the room, sitting at a desk, reading over an old tattered copy of a former Booker winner,  _My Best Friend_. He looks up, surprised when the guitar stops, notes me standing there and returns to his reading.

"I kind of suck now," Crescend says bashfully, smiling a little, as though touched that someone's bothered listening to him. "But this is for the variety show, so who cares if I'm shit?"

 _He_  does. It's in his voice; if he was shit and he didn't care, he wouldn't be trying, he wouldn't be practising like this, but I don't point that out. 

"Where have you been, anyway, doc?" he asks. "That new guy's gone and changed my meds again and I haven't taken a shit in three days." There's anger in his voice, softened only slightly by his need to shock me by mentioning his bodily functions. Denham, still reading, clears his throat.

"I'd say it's giving me the shits, but that would be a lie, wouldn't it?" he asks. 

I stare at him blankly before deciding to change the subject. When I do, I step into the room slightly. "Is this your song?" I ask. "That you were telling me about last time we met?"

He nods, smiling slightly. "Yeah," he says. "A sort of stripped back thing, really. It's called  _Might as Well Hang_." He chuckles darkly. "I suppose that would be considered warped if we still had the death penalty, but, hey, we don't." He shrugs again. "Klavier will probably get the joke."

There's an intensity in his voice when he says that, and I'm worried that he won't get his wish, that Klavier will not arrive. That like anyone else, his plans could seem perfect and stable, and then at the last minute, someone will upset his apple cart, changing something at the eleventh hour, suddenly rendering hours of effort entirely pointless--

"Are you sure Klavier will show up?" I ask him quietly.

"He'd better," Crescend says, brushing his hair out of the way. "He said he would, anyway." He shrugs. "And even if he doesn't, I still want this to sound good: there's a whole audience of other people to hear it, anyway." He flashes a grin at me; sharp, shark-like teeth remind me that he's not stupid and he's not safe-- despite the pop star eyes and the still-attractive features. "Anyway, Gant's doing his thing and says we should all participate. Community spirit and all."

 

Denham clears his throat, turning a page. I'm longing to ask Crescend why he's bothering to listen to Gant anyway, but have been subtly reminded by Denham-- who jumps to my list of potential backstabbers-- that I probably have other things I need to do.

"I'd better get going," I tell him. "But good luck with the song."

He smiles coyly at me. "You're coming to the variety show, right?" he asks. He can't hide the enthusiasm in his voice. For some reason, I'm touched by that.

I nod. "I wouldn't miss it for the world."

 

 

 

When I reach my office, Lily and Smeer are both waiting at the front. Smeer looks as though he's just seen a dead body, Lily looks grim-faced and pissed off.

I'm surprised; for some reason, I didn't think they would get along; I suspected Lily's lip service towards Smeer was purely professional. I shouldn't take it personally, and I'm embarrassed when I realise it, but I'm put out by the fact that they seem to be getting along.

"Hello, docto--" Smeer is twitching as he speaks. I raise an eyebrow, almost wanting to taunt him. Then I see that he's standing next to Lily, and I do the math. 

"Allow me to guess what you two want to see me about?" I ask them, opening the door and watching, helpless, as they wander in. 

"You don't have to guess," Lily says tersely. "He's shopping around for professionals, and he's being uncooperative with Dr. Smeer."

I want to laugh. I want to give him a rude hand gesture and sneer, in hypermanic Engarde tones, the sort of expletives a pissed off Crescend would be throwing around on a bad day, with grating, booming Tigre growl at the end. 

Instead, I control my inner thirteen year old brat, and blink. "I'm afraid I'm probably unable to help you," I say evenly. 

"Might I state for the record that I am  _not_  fond of working with him?" Smeer asks in a snap. Lily nods sympathetically, though the look on her face is almost...  _hurt_. As though she's upset for her charge, and she'd rather his psychiatrist be more accepting of him.

I want to call Smeer a starfucker who can't handle the heat and belongs in a psych ward where heavy drugs are a standardised part of work, but don't. 

"He takes a while to get used to," I say with a shrug, and Lily nods in agreement.

"He's being deliberately hostile, I believe," Smeer says. "And I suspect he's also a pathological liar. And that he's probably going to kill someone."

I raise my eyebrows, and Lily turns to him and protests. "I disagree with that," she says. "Work with any of these guys and you'll hear murder and treason and plot from all of them." She sounds exhausted. "What we need, though, is for some management strategies for him and to get him used to seeing Dr. Smeer." She shifts uncomfortably in her seat. "I realise that's like asking you to--"

"Dance on my own grave?" I ask softly. I'm smiling. Only slightly, the corners of my lips turning upwards a bit. I tilt my head to the side to see Smeer's reaction. He looks away from me. 

"Have you considered alternative treatment for Gavin?" Smeer snaps, when I'm looking back at Lily, serious, no longer smiling. "Because--" He flips through Gavin's phone-book-thick file, carried under his arm and placed on my desk uninvited-- "You've been seeing him for nearly a year, and he does not appear to have responded to any--"

The penny drops. There's an instant dryness in the back of my throat, horror and rage and disgust. 

"No offense to you, doctor, and I understand that you'd prefer not to use drug therapy if at all--"

"If I could find any symptoms of anything I could treat with drugs for Mr. Gavin, I'd be happy to prescribe them," I find myself saying. "but as it stands-- I'm yet to find such a thing."

"What about the violence?" Smeer asks me. His voice is rising.

 

"If you could explain to me what it's symptomatic of--?"

  
"He's feeling anxious," he says. "He needs anti-anxiety agents." Smeer huffs out a sigh quickly. "And when I suggested this, he showed signs of being  _paranoid_  and stated that drugs would interfere with his brain functioning." He's scared. I can practically smell the fear coming off him; he wants Gavin on drugs. And Gavin doesn't want to cooperate. 

And I wonder if this is more about  _that_ , Gavin's refusal to bend-- which is upsetting Smeer more than anything he's said or done. 

"Has he done anything that suggests any other psychiatric illness?"

Smeer eyes me, incredulous. "So two murders, an attempted murder, random assaults and the attacks on Matt Engarde aren't suggestive of a personality disorder?" he snaps.

I push my chair in towards my desk. "If he was incapable of knowing right from wrong-- if he was that overwhelmed and impaired by his psychiatric conditions-- he would have been sentenced to a forensic hospital, not here." I don't know why I'm arguing so defiantly now, why I feel so awake and irritated; if it's because he's threatening me in some manner, my diagnosis and therapy-- or if he's threatening Gavin.

"I know we say these things," he says in a soft, condescending voice, "But we need to think about what would be best for Mr. Gavin. He's here for life-- if we can manage him more effectively with drugs--"

All this time, Lily has sat in her chair, watching us, saying nothing, her tired eyes moving from one face to the other as though she's watching a game of tennis. I can't help but wonder why she's here, if she's secretly assessing us, weighing us up against one another, if she hasn't yet decided which one of us she agrees with.

"Has he given any recent suggestion that he is violent and dangerous?" I ask. 

"He's unbalanced and could snap at any time," Smeer snarls at me. "He poses an occupational health and safety risk."

"To whom?"

"To anyone working with him." His voice is stiff and angry. "And he is scheduled in to see me weekly," he says-- "and according to the records, he sometimes booked in for more frequent sessions-- he's an  _expense_ \-- and this is all to no avail, anyway." He slaps the file shut angrily. "My professional recommendation is for him to start a course of anti anxiety medication with a mild sedative effect, and to reduce his sessions to once a fortnight and then once a month when we know that the meds are working."

I don't say anything immediately. I look at Lily; she looks apprehensive, and I know why: he's effectively shut me down. There's no reason he  _can't_  do what he's intending on doing, for one thing-- he's now Gavin's psychiatrist. Secondly, he's essentially written off all the months, all the sessions, all the  _dealing with_  Gavin that I've done.

I'm horrified and deeply offended by his suggestion. I'm trying to tell myself that it isn't personal, that maybe the two of us come from two different approaches to managing challenging behaviours-- but I'm overwhelmed by the sick feeling in my stomach. Maybe he wants Lily to see this, maybe Lily's already argued with him about this. Maybe he wants Lily to see me agree and to have vindication to do what he's planning. 

"Perhaps a different approach might give us different results with him," Lily says diplomatically. She doesn't look at me when she says it. "He hasn't been particularly cooperative with me, either, lately."

I sigh. "Has he made any threats?" 

"Not directly," Smeer says. "He's... insidious, though. He's asked about my credentials-- my training, my experience. Like he's planning something."

"That's how he starts to feel comfortable with people."

"He's a sociopath."

"I'm not sure about that," I say tightly. "My suspicions were that he was a narcissist for some of the time I was working with him." 

"I'm not here to argue," Smeer snaps. He looks bothered by my statement. "What I  _did_  come here to ask was if you had any suggestions for strategies which could achieve cooperation from him."

 

I blink. "I do not," I tell him tightly. "If you wish to go that route, I suggest discussing it with him."

"And if he doesn't comply, I can aim for an intervention." 

I glance at the clock on my desk, and the look of bewilderment on Lily's face; she's noticed the time, too-- she's probably aware as I am that I have a session scheduled with Tigre. 

I put my hands on his file, gravely concerned, my face showing nothing as I slide it over the desk towards him. "Do what you feel you need to," I say angrily. "But don't expect my compliance or agreement."

He smiles at me, then, tight and nasty and evil, and I realise that whatever is going on, this is far from the end of it. 

"I would love to stay and discuss case files," I tell him, "Though I'm aware that I have a session scheduled in a few minutes."

Lily nods, looking put-out, as though she wanted to say something. I cock an eyebrow at her, as though asking for her input, and she ignores me. 

"I have a visit scheduled for the man in question, anyway," she says. She smiles faintly. "Justice."

I nod. It's all I can do. She pushes back on her chair, standing up.

"How are you getting on with the others?" I ask Smeer quietly. "I hope they're not as difficult as Gavin." It's politeness laced with dark curiosity.

"They're fine," he says. "But I am noticing some problematic patterns with Gavin, that's all."

He stands and pushes his chair out as Lily did, and reaches forward to shake my hand. I do out of curiosity; it's cold and clean and all too polite. I look at him in an indifferent sort of way as he and Lily head out of my office.

  
When they're gone, I'm shaking.

 

 

 

"So are you planning to do anything for the Smile Time Variety Show?"

I don't see Furio Tigre very often, and admittedly, he unnerves me, for all the opposite reasons Gavin never did. His danger is as obvious and as menacing as his tattoos and the spray tan he sported when he was admitted. It's unfair of me to be bothered by him, I realise; there is an honesty in his appearance. He's a regular crim, he's like a poisonous insect with colouration designed to say to predators:  _Danger! Do not eat_.

But the tough guy voice, the frequent growls, and his intense glares and silences threatening volcanic eruptions every so often bother me. He could snap, switch and turn and attack and roar at any given moment. His case notes are littered with comments such as "Does not respond well to being challenged," and there have been more than a few incidents on the floor where staff have apparently missed assaults which were probably due to him-- which I can only assume is due to their own fear of his size and strength and noise-- and their reluctance to give in and call a lockdown and bring in the SORT guys.

He shrugs when I ask him, his eyes glittering for a moment. "Ain't nothin' I'm any good at in an artistic sense," he says, unimpressed and clearly displeased with my attempt at casual conversation. "Youse have told me there's gonna be kids at this gig. Kids don't need to see anything I'm good at."

I wonder if anyone's told him that tigers purportedly have extremely infrequent sexual activity and that the act itself lasts only a couple of minutes. If that's what he's implying, anyway.

I smirk to myself, imagining that someone like Gavin probably is well aware of this, and probably has either told him that, or wanted to.

"Anyway, I'm here 'coz I have anger issues," he says. His face tightens with that statement, both proving what he's saying and displaying the fact that he disagrees and is angry at the suggestion. "So I smashed someone who got in my face," he says. "I smash punks when they disrespect me. I got Smokey da Bear to take care of that bitch when she sold me out and fucked me over."

 _That bitch_. The reason Tigre and Behr can't be in a possibly more suitable unit given their crimes;  _that bitch_  was his former girlfriend who was protected when someone-- presumably Behr, now that I've been told this-- attempted to kill her following Tigre's imprisonment.  _That bitch_  was a sweet little mafia princess. Furio Tigre, despite the intimidating appearance-- is an idiot.

"You have a parole hearing coming up in a fortnight," I tell him calmly, even though I can feel my legs shaking and my hand is clutching, sweating on my duress alarm's casing. According to the court transcript, this was the man who had a highly-regarded judge hiding under his seat in court. I want to think that's silly, but I can't blame the guy.

"I know," he says, dismissive. "An' I'd better get out, too." He shakes a fist threateningly. "An' if I  _don't_ \--" He leans forward, arms flying backwards, chair moving with him in it. A fair distance from the desk, he leans across, resting his feet, criss-crossed over one another, on my desk.

"Could you please remove your feet from my desk?" I ask timidly.

"What the fuck did you just say, doc?" 

My heart is racing, and I try to avoid showing him the whites of my eyes. There's a scratchy lump in my throat and I'm scared; but I've asked him to do something, I need to follow through, and I need him to cooperate, because like just about everyone else here, I want him paroled. Even though the community probably doesn't.

"I asked you to remove your feet from my desk." Black boots, each the size of footballs, are dangerously close to my computer screen. "I need that computer so I can type up your parole eligibility report."

He eyes me nastily, with cold loathing, and nudges at the screen with his foot slightly, taunting me. I shift back and pretend to ignore him. Maybe if he thinks the computer screen doesn't bother me that much, he'll get sick of thinking he can hold it over me.

 

"Youse screws are gonna write me dat report an' it's gonna be  _good_ ," he growls. "Youse are gonna have to buy a whole entire new computer system if I fuck up this one just so I can get out-- or else--" his fist hits his other hand threateningly. " _Pow_. Youse all think ya saw shit go down when that pretty boy Gavin got done over, dinn'int ya?" He smiles broadly, revealing an odd set of teeth; some are pointed, some are movie star white, some are discoloured, and one is gold. "You motherfuckers ain't seen  _shit_ ," he says with a sneer. "Me an' the crew are gonna fuck youse  _all_  if I don't see parole."

"Mr. Tigre," I offer gently. "Are you concerned about your chances?" I'm terrified. Even though most of it's probably for show. "We unfortunately have your involvement with that particular case with Klavier Gavin, and then there have been reports of you and some of your associates being interested in harming other inmates--"  _Not to mention calling a hit on Viola Cadaverini--_ he's probably safer in here than out there, anyway.

"Are you calling me a fucken  _rat_?" he growls. His fists clench threateningly again. "Out dere-- I'm da man-- da  _tigre_. King of the fucken  _jungle_. I run alone." His voice softens slightly. "In here," he says, "I run with my pack." Suddenly his voice is dismissive. "I ain't saying  _shit_  about what my boys do just like they don't say shit about what I do." 

He glares at me threateningly, and stands up, dragging his feet off the table. My heart is racing, I'm ready to push that motherfucking duress alarm, even though I suspect it might be ignored by most of the floor staff.

I'm waiting to have the computer thrown at me.

"Da tigre don't kiss no one's ass," he growls. "Youse gonna write dat report, youse gonna make it  _good_." 

He doesn't try mindgames, he doesn't try to negotiate. He doesn't try to appeal to my feelings and sense of decency. 

I tentatively pick up the phone, ringing the floor and virtually whisper to Hamm on the duty desk that we're done. Tigre ignores me, pushing his chair in, letting it grate on the floor, screeching. He walks to the door, tugging on the locked handle, causing it to shudder.

Once again, I'm terrified, suspecting that he quite possibly  _could_  kick down, or pull down a door if he wished to.

I'm going to need a cigarette after this.

"An' hey." He turns around when the door doesn't open, looking at me. "I needa see dat udda shrink guy."

I'm almost amused. I'd be amused if I was a less decent person, and I wonder if he's hoping to intimidate Smeer into writing a shiny report. Smeer can have him, I think bitterly. Smeer can drug him to the hilt, I think unfairly.

Hamm's used to him, and he receives him and offers me a smile which reads, "You get used to him." I haven't, and won't. Maybe if Tigre cared more about his mental health and his anger issues, I would.

I give it five minutes in case Tigre has second thoughts and decides to turn around and rough me up once I'm out of my office.

When the coast is clear, I lock up and fly down to the front of the building, frantically lighting a cigarette like a desperate high schooler in a bathroom during what's supposed to be a legitimate toilet break and not a nicotine fix.

I feel horrible, drained and nervous and useless and close to cracking, I think as my third attempt to light the cigarette between my lips fails.

And then I turn around; an unusual sound, a sniffle, like the unusual melody of the guitar heard earlier-- makes me look up instinctively.

Apparently my day has been on par with Apollo Justice's.

 

 

 

Sucking in on the cigarette, and realising that it's made a  _slurrrrp_  of a sound, I realise that I can't just stand there. The little sniffles stop for a moment, there's silence from him; he's been distracted from his upset because he's aware of my presence.

And I'm not sure what to do. I don't know whether compassion is offering an ear and some half-hearted concern, or pretending I didn't hear anything, allowing him to slink away and lick his wounds in private. 

The two of us stare at one another for a moment, his eyes look into mine and he blinks, recognising me. His face softens a little, and his mouth opens. He's red-faced and looks as though he's been crying for awhile-- I do the mental math and realise he's possibly been sitting out here for some time.

"Hi." I offer a friendly nod, sympathetic and kindly--  _It's okay; sometimes seeing inmates in here can be confronting as a visitor_ \-- and expect him to offer an awkward nod and to shift away as though caught out. 

But he doesn't. His big brown eyes, glassy with tears, look at me and he says, unflinching, "You're his therapist, aren't you?" As though he's determined not to start crying again. He doesn't seem  _sad_ , I notice, but bitter and betrayed and confused and worried-- he's not  _hurt_ , he's frustrated; there's a twitch in his demeanor suggesting that he's caught between a rock and a hard place.

I don't want to talk to him, not really-- I want to hear what he has to say because I'm curious, even though I shouldn't be-- but I have no need for conversation. But to the normally enthusiastic young guy in the bright red suit, I'm familiar, I'm wise, I'm a doctor who can make it all better.

I nod to his question and before I can explain that I  _was_  his therapist and am no longer, his mouth opens again. 

"I think I need to talk to you," he tells me seriously.

I sigh, grateful for the distraction of the cigarette which I inhale on. "I'm not his therapist any more."

He blinks at me, surprised. He clearly didn't expect me to say that.

"Why?" There's embarrassment on his face. "I wasn't really implying anything, just..."

"Administrative changes," I tell him casually. "Nothing personal."

He eyes me suspiciously for a second. "But you worked with him for the past year, didn't you?" Suddenly there's a hardness in his voice; he wants information which I most certainly cannot give him. I try to imagine him sitting in Lauryn's office, in her waiting room, looking at the tropical fish or flipping through elegant glossy magazines while waiting for some other well-known lawyer to finish up with Dr. Dell. 

"Yes."

He plays with his sleeve, folding and unfolding it. "How has he been?" he asks nervously. "I'm not asking what he told you because I know you're not allowed to discuss that-- but has he been  _all right_? I've heard some things about him which I still can't quite believe, but he seems to be acting...  _weirdly_  for the man I remember being my boss..."

"People change when they enter the penal system," I tell him vaguely, and realise afterwards that maybe that's the thing that's the unnerving thing about Gavin: he comes across as every bit as normal and calm and manipulative as he was in his former life from all reports. Granted, he has his moments of frustration, but for the most part, he still seems disturbingly in control. 

"He hasn't changed  _much_ ," Justice says. "He's still--  _calm_." He reaches up and rubs the side of his face, the salty sting of tears drying on his skin an irritation.

"He does present as quite calm," I say smoothly. I'm stuck. I don't want to continue this conversation, I'm teetering on dangerous ground here.

"Did he tell you much?" he asks. "He never seemed to  _need_  any help, though he liked conversation." And that's when I see it; Lily's point about the kid still being in love with him is painfully evident in that moment; Justice is aware of it and I'm aware of it, the way his poor little voice shifts and he's nervous and looking away from me. I pity him and I want to shake him, to tell him to stay out of this mess, that Gavin, most likely, as others have said, is irredeemable.

"He does like a conversation," I say with another casual nod, inhaling on my cigarette again.

 

He looks at me, wide-eyed, and nods. It's as though he wants to say something else to me and I can't work out what.

Or if I really want to hear it. 

I exhale another stream of carcinogenic air, and hope that the conversation is over. Justice looks at me, and then at the expanse of parking lot around us.

"How are you getting back home?" I ask him.

"A friend is picking me up," he says coyly, a blush appearing in his cheeks, a tinge of redness. "You might have seen something in the pa-- well, it's kind of true now." I don't know why he feels he can trust me like this-- perhaps because we've both been intimately acquainted with Gavin. He shuffles nervously as though he still needs to explain. "Previously it would have been Mr. Edgeworth, but..." He looks down at the ground again, shaking slightly. "Things have changed, and they are--"

And then he looks frantic. He still wants to tell me something, and it's making me nervous. 

"I guess in your line of work you have to deal with confidentiality a lot," he says. "And I know you have to give testimony when called to do so but--" He cuts himself off, as though trying to rationalise some decision that he's already made. "Do you think Mr. Gavin lies about a lot of things in order to sound powerful?" he asks. "Because I think he has with me."

I don't want this conversation. I was meant to be heading home, no more appointments to take care of today, I can write up notes at home or tomorrow morning after the encounter with Tigre.

I can't help but ask him, though. "In what respect?"

"He told me something in the meeting that--"

In the meeting. In front of witnesses. 

"I think he was lying, but I can't work out why-- he said it was about trust; he actually  _hugged_  me-- before that prison officer could stop him really--" He's shaking as he speaks, a runaway train, a burst dam, something which can't stop any more and which is enormously huge and overwhelming and dangerous.

"If I tell anyone what he said, I'm betraying him, and I think it's a lie." He nods, serious. "Has he done that to you? Lied-- to see how you'll react and if you'll tell anyone?"

I have flashes of moments with Gavin, his more extreme and out-there statements; I've not known him to lie. The brutal, cold honesty has always, in my experience, been stranger than the lies I've been told by inmates. But I don't tell Justice.

"Perhaps you should do what you feel you need to," I tell him softly. "If holding onto a secret, even if it's a lie, is making you feel like you should be saying it-- then maybe you need to tell someone." I feel guilty; I'm handing him over to Lauryn. And he has no idea that I know who she is.

"But if it's a lie, that would be pointlessly betraying him, wouldn't it?"

I watch him carefully, then noticing the way he flinches, and I take one final suck of the cigarette. At least he's not crying any more.

"This is just another one of his tests," he says unhappily. "But--"

 _But what_?

"Is it a serious lie or a silly thing?" I ask. Maybe he's been told some white lie about something insignificant which has nothing to do with anyone except the two of them.

"It's about murder," he says quietly. "It's... too ridiculous to believe; it's Mr. Gavin, the poorly-made sequel." There's a lame smile from him and then the roar of an engine in the distance. Apollo turns in its direction; a dark purple Hummer with tinted windows screeches up near us. The window on the passenger side winds down, and I'm shocked to see a paler, softer-looking Klavier Gavin looking at us, bewildered and timid-- his face hardens when he sees me. He says nothing, but a smile appears on his face when Apollo smiles to him and offers a "Hello."

Opening the door and stepping down, I stand back as Apollo nods to me, still looking worried. "There's my friend," he says, offering a wave to me.

I watch as the door closes, taking in Klavier Gavin; skinnier, fragile-looking despite the purple suit and the sunglasses pushed down over his eyes as he leaves the car and walks over to Justice, draping an arm over him as though he needs the support to walk.

 

"How was it?" he asks. He doesn't sound playful and flirtatious, he sounds resigned and broken and a lot older than he should. "How is  _mein bruder_." The hatred and disgust in his voice is jarring. I don't hear what Justice says in response, but I watch as the back door is opened, and the two climb into the back passenger seats for the ride home.

So this is what Kristoph Gavin's world on the outside has turned into.

I drop the cigarette butt on the ground, bothered by what I've just heard from Justice. The idea of Gavin lying to me hadn't really occurred to me before; that conversation I had with Justice was emotional and highly charged with his own feelings-- was this some sort of game, an attempt to pull on someone's strings beyond the walls of the prison?

I'm not sure, but Justice seemed startled. I almost want to ask Lauryn what it was all about, in the same sort of innocent fashion that he was asking about his former mentor. But I can't; I'm not and shouldn't be emotionally invested.

 

 

 

I should be going home. I  _would_  be going home, finishing up my day-- screw the unpaid overtime when most of my time-consuming clients have been  _reallocated_ , I think to myself-- but for the fact that I've left things in my office, which isn't in the tidiest state. I need to be a good employee, to dot my  _i_ s and cross my  _t_ s. A few weeks ago, I could be sloppier; my livelihood wasn't at risk. Now, I'm nervous.

My office is a mess; I tidy up carefully, shutting down my computer and brushing staples and dust from the desktop, grabbing my bag and stepping away from my post, ready to head home. And in the nick of time, the door opens. 

Parke. He looks flustered and nervous; he didn't even knock. I look at him quizzically, and wait for whatever he needs to tell me: instantly I'm wondering if it's about the rumours, if someone's been caught saying something, and there's a flicker of hope shooting through my brain.

And then terror: does this mean an inquiry and paperwork and interviews? Will I need to contact the union-- will I even be protected-- or will I have to lawyer up and--?

"I just received a call from Dan," Parke says.

And I'm silent and frozen as he is, waiting. Is this me getting fired? Whatever he has to say seems to be something he doesn't want to say or doesn't know how to say-- I think of the irony and the good timing-- I'd just cleaned my office up, hadn't I?

"deNong?" 

He nods. "The one and only." He still looks flushed and terrified. 

"What's he doing now?" I ask. I can feel the disbelief in my voice. I'm shocked and yet strangely unsurprised, waiting for the hammer to fall.  _This is the way the world ends_ , I think,  _Not with a bang but a whimper_. It's not my world. It's my job. I've  _made_  it my world, it's my own fault. I'm qualified; Parke will give me a good reference, I've worked with some high-profile challenging clients. Everything will be okay.

"The governor just called an election."

 _So?_

"And deNong's coming in tomorrow morning to review the prison and some of the operational issues: that mess with Klavier Gavin and the SORT team coming in and all the media ruckus surrounding that has been brought up, and they're feeling like there needs to be an image change."

"Let's change the image of American prisons," I say dryly. "Or be honest about them."

"Titian wants to win this," deNong says, his voice echoing my same level of sarcasm. "Since she took office unexpectedly last time, she wants to show the state that she's as hot and strong on criminal matters as her predecessor was."

I've barely followed politics. Political events on the outside don't mean much to a lot of the inmates; it's just another outside power structure they have no control over. Many of them avoid thinking about what they cannot change. Many of them are cynical about people with power anyway; democrats and republicans and independents are just as corrupt and useless as one another. For some, I imagine, it hurts to see a world they used to be able to influence, even slightly, and no longer can. Maybe some of them just never cared in the first place. It's one of those things-- you work here long enough and you start getting sucked into it, I suppose, a blink-your-eyes-at-the-light when you're out fascination,  _so this is what the real world looks like_  when you spend so long inside that you start forgetting.

Parke follows politics, though. Parke's job is more dependent on politics than mine.

"Right," I say grimly. "Does this mean they'll be fighting for the death penalty to be reinstated?"

"I have no idea," Parke says. "I suspect funding cuts, to be honest, and I assume there'll be some 'tough but fair' line they'll tow. We'll see the  _tough_  in the funding cuts and possibly upping the security," he continues. "And a cover up to hide the fact that those electrical contractors were hired on the cheap and apparently there are some technical issues with the wiring on a couple of the units."

I suck my breath in and my eyes widen. "So Moreau  _was right_?"

" _Someone_ ," Parke says, teeth gritted, "Who I  _assume_  probably  _is_  Moreau, apparently wrote to the Electrical Safety Board anonymously and stated there were some flaws with the system in relation to the surge control." He sighs. "At least I know what's actually  _wrong_  and I have reason to believe that it  _was_  Moreau."

  
"What happens?" 

Parke sighs again, looking like he's only just considering the weight of the problem now. "It's going to cost at least fifty grand to get this wing fixed up," he says. "Apparently the hallway and a few other areas-- including the  _bathroom_ \-- lose power if electrical currents come in contact with water."

"The  _bathroom_?"

"Apparently they weren't insulated as they're meant to be given that there's generally water  _in_  the bathroom," Parke says. "Which means Moreau was right, and which means it's not such a headache unless there were to be electrical currents running through the bathroom and getting wet."

I nod. "No one uses electrical outlets in there. It's not like this has actually happened yet, is it? And why would there be water in the general areas near the light fittings?"

Parke nods. "But Titian's pissed off about it and she's cracking down, apparently.

"So what gets done about Moreau?"

"Moreau?" Parke sniffs. "Why would we do anything about Moreau?"

"The let--"

"No proof it was him who sent it, but that's another administrative nightmare: that letter somehow bypassed our checks--"

"The mailroom?" I ask.  _Engarde?_  

"Nope," he says. "Beats the hell out of me; my guess is that it left with a visitor. And because it's not detailling anything illegal, because it's actually reporting something in line with current legislation about safety, our hands are tied." He sits down at my desk, angry and exhausted, his hand finding my mouse and running it along the desk in irritation. "What are we going to do? Kick someone's ass for doing the honorable thing because it makes us look bad? We do that, and  _that_  gets out, and we're going to be in even deeper shit. And every sonofabitch who wants to say we're corrupt and putting people's safety at risk wil use a coverup like that as an example." His voice is grim and his mouth is a tight, nervous line.

"We could get Gavin to kill off Moreau, couldn't we?" I ask with a slight smile. "Remember how the prison got him to get rid of Acro Dingling?"

Parke smiles slightly. "Don't think you're getting a comedy gig when you're outta here," he says. "That wasn't funny."

I sigh. "So what's the plan?"

"We brace ourselves for a visit from deNong tomorrow morning and a hell of a lot of policy changes," he says. "I wouldn't be surprised if they go the New Prisons model; twenty-two hours in lockdown across all maximum security units, that sort of thing."

"Why even  _pretend_  this place is about rehabilitation, then?" 

"Who's pretending what?" he asks. 

I look at him, trying to read his expression. I can't tell if he's angry because he's scared or he's just tired. Maybe it's a combination of all of them.

"We just need to fix up this whole fucking mess," he says. "One thing at a time; we need to make it look good by tomorrow morning. We need to keep deNong in a good mood and hope the visit goes smoothly..." He's losing himself in his thoughts.

"Or else?"

"I dunno." He looks bothered. "If shit hits the fan, if deNong gets spooked, he's going to take it out on me." His face twists into a grimace of frustration. "And we're to expect at least one visit from the governor-- I haven't even seen her yet, but now there's an election, we'll probably get at least one visit for some sort of baby-kissing feelgood spot on the news."

 

"Clemency?" I ask with a laugh.

"I didn't even think of that. God: maybe." His face falls. " _Fuck._  That's just gonna wire this place up like Fourth of July preparations." He speaks unsteadily and nervously; he's now considering it as a reality. "You know, you're  _right_ : she might actually push something like that through-- Polly Titian is clever: she likes distracting people, she's a smooth operator-- and we haven't seen a clemency bid for awhile."

"Does this mean I have to write reports about my former clients?" I'm tentative and nervous, but curious.

He nods. "I wouldn't trust other psych workers," he tells me with a wry expression. "You've known them for longer; it makes  _sense_."

"Any candidates come to mind?"

"Banks," Parke says instantly. "Probably the only one. At his age, he's not going to be jumping into a heist with his crew, and he's been a model prisoner." He looks at me. "Don't tell me you had someone else in mind?"

I didn't.

"I'd suspect Gant might be a contender, too," he says darkly. "From all accounts..."

"Gant was involved with the Gavin situation."

"Officially, Gant was just in the wrong place at the wrong time and didn't do anything." He raises his eyebrows. "And he's getting on, too. Even if he does get out, he's not going to be getting up to much, he won't have the sort of power he had before, and we won't have to pay for him when he starts hitting his twilight years and needs hip replacements and continence pads."

"Isn't that a bit cynical?" I ask.

"Titian will love him." 

"She's an economist?"  _Like Smeer?_  I'm wondering how far up the chain of power goes: if deNong and Smeer are in cahoots, and they've got political clout... it's terrifying but horribly typical.

Parke gives me a knowing look and sighs. "We just need to manage tomorrow," he says. "One step at a time, that's all." He sounds as though he's trying to pep talk himself as much as me.

I nod. 

"I want you on the floor if you're not booked out-- I'm bringing on as many staff as possible, I want to show deNong that we have control here, that the system works, that he's got nothing to fear and that all is well."

"Adding more staff can unnerve some of them," I point out. "Like they know something's up; like they're expecting a riot."

"Geez," Parke says gravely. "You always have to think of shit like that, don't you?"

 

 

 

When Lauryn rings in the evening, I tell her that I can come out, sure, and that I probably need to, but it can't be a late night because I need to be up for an important date in the morning.

She's taken aback for a moment. "Who?" she asks. She's more surprised than bothered, I suspect, but still, the pause between the question and my statement is jarring.

"Dan deNong."

In typical Lauryn fashion, she knows me all too well and knows my workplace all too well even though she's never set a foot in there. "Shit," she murmurs quietly. "I'll be over in a few."

  
We go out for a light Thai meal, in a trendy but secluded little restaurant which I've never seen before. It could almost be romantic, I think whimsically as we're left alone by the waiter after ordering, the light decorations sparkling on the wall around us, soft and unobtrusive and subtle music playing around us-- until she shakes her napkin unfolded and rests it on her lap nervously.

"I'll admit it upfront," she says. "I have an ulterior motive for seeing you."

My heart stops, and for a split second, I wonder if she's somehow involved in this whole mess. My paranoia has latched onto anything and everything which could be a threat; my life in recent times is like a tense, page-turner of a psychological thriller, only with a lot more mess and a lot more grey areas of dull and inactive threats; backstabbing colleagues and administrative issues making me fear for my life, not bombs and terrorist threats.

In the books, it's always the girl or the best friend who sells out the protagonist, who is part of the plan, the finality comes with the falling hero learning that he was had.

I shake my head quickly, trying to make it look like I'm trying to brush off an irritating hair or a droplet of water. Lauryn looks at me curious, a slight smile appearing on her lips, her eyes blinking, confused. 

It can't be Lauryn. No way.

"Are you all right?" she asks.

"Yeah." I feel like an idiot.

"I heard you talked to one of my clients earlier this afternoon." 

So Justice called her after the conversation. I nod. "Yes," I tell her. "I didn't see him in the visit, but I know he was quite shaken afterwards."

"At the risk of breaching confidentiality," she asks, "Did he say much to you?"

"He's not my client so I can probably tell you-- and no, he didn't."

She sighs, resting her hands on the napkin on her lap. "Did your _ex_ client tell you that he's been in contact with... my client?"

No. He hadn't. But likely, just as with what he'd been doing to Klavier, he probably just didn't feel it needed mentioning in our sessions.

"Not at all."

"He'd phoned a few times, always stringing him along, asking for favours-- little things-- and Just--" Her voice is concerned and sad.

"I suspect he still had feelings for him."

Lauryn's eyes are wide and upset, and she nods. "Bingo," she says. "But he's conflicted: he shouldn't  _have_  feelings for him; this is the man who caused so much upheaval in everyone's lives around his-- if he killed White, as my other two clients seem to be arguing about-- then he's inadvertently caused more damage." Her face hardens and she looks at me intently. "Because I doubt the issues about that man, and what he was to them-- confidante to one, murderer to another-- would have resurfaced like that."

"You can't blame my client for a relationship breakup." I snort, annoyed. Gavin has been blamed for so many things-- that one's reaching a bit far.

"I can blame him for supplying your client's  _friend_  with something he probably isn't meant to have in prison."

I'm staring at her, openmouthed. "What do you mean?" I ask slowly.

"Apparently there's a man there who murdered a police officer years ago-- one of Phoenix Wright's victories-- I can't remember his name, but I was told-- Richard something--"

 

"Engarde," I correct her in an undertone. I haven't yet grasped her suggestion, and have blurted out the first thing that's come into my mind. "And he didn't--"

"Engarde was the actor," she says, and she's looking as confused as I am. "What does he have to do with this--?"

"He's my client's  _friend_." I'm barely speaking above a whisper now; I shouldn't be talking about any of this.

She nods, though still sounds confused. "I know Engarde-- or-- I  _did_  know Engarde-- years ago I was seeing him for narcotics problems-- he hit on me." She wrinkles her nose in disgust. "I'd just started working in the field and he only showed for two appointments and then threw a tantrum and told me I was useless. I think that had more to do with the fact that I rejected his advances than the fact that he actually wanted to kick the drug habit." She doesn't look impressed, but some character has returned to her face; she's not wide-eyed with confusion but somewhat unfondly remembering something from years ago. "And geez-- drugs were only the start of it-- the guy has more issues with women than Freud did, and-- is he still self-harming?" 

I nod. "Yeah. Though his issues with women"-- I'm surprised about that one, though mildly curious-- "never occurred to me."

"Don't tell me you were working with him, too?" she asks.

I nod. 

"Geez," she mutters, shaking her head. "And you're saying--"

"Breaching confidentiality entirely," I continue slowly, "My client and the other man you mentioned-- the one your client was sending something to-- they don't get along at all." 

This would be so much easier if we could use names.

"So why would your client ask for a favour for him?" She blinks, scared now. 

"What did your client send him?"

"He wanted-- nail stuff. Apparently your client has a thing about his nails, and so does this other guy, and--"

"What stuff specifically?"  _Lily brought in nail polish..._

"A nail file," she says. "He told me after he'd sent it, that he was doing what your client wanted, that he was concerned they were more than friends, if you get my gist--" Memories of Wellington's bruised and bloodied face after that first encounter with Gavin come to mind, as do flashes of the injuries sustained by Engarde. "But he just wanted your client to be  _happy_." She's choking on her words, her hand held towards her through, speaking without believing what she's saying. "He was always like that; he had this sense that your client still cared about him on some level even though he feels responsible for ruining his life when--"

"You just said that my client ruined  _his_  life."

"He did." Her voice is firm and uncompromising. "But my client was having problems comprehending that."

"When do you think he sent it?"

"Not long ago." She frowns. "Shouldn't it have arrived by now?"

"Yes-- and we haven't been advised of anything on the unit; usually when contraband comes in, we're all made aware of it and the inmate with the contraband gets punished." 

"How did a nail file sneak onto the unit and through the mail?"

"Precisely." My fingers rub stiffly at my forehead. "If I haven't heard anything about it at work by the end of the week, now we have another problem on our hands."

"I don't want my client getting in trouble," Lauryn says nervously. "He was only trying to do the right thing; he's not really aware of prison protocol--"

"He should have known better," I find myself snapping.

"Your client was the one who manipulated him into doing it."

" _Your_  client was the one who knows what he's like and who chose to do something stupid."

"He didn't know it was stupid," she protests. She's speaking a bit more loudly. "Perhaps your work needs some better security." 

 

She's right, and I sigh. If a letter left with someone, and if a nail file, of all things, a metal implement-- a potential weapon-- I think of toothbrushes scraped and sharpened against concrete walls and shudder-- is on the unit-- that's a breach in security. Not my fault, though I feel unreasonably defensive.

"Do you think he was trying to drag my client into the same mess as he's in?" she asks.

The signage out the front, behind where the desk jockeys work, stipulates that anyone introducing contraband onto the unit will be prosecuted and may be sentenced to a jail term.

"I don't know," I tell her. I think of Gavin and his discussion about Justice, and I think about his interaction with Engarde. And then I think about the recent times, the rising tensions between Gant and his group and Gavin and Engarde. Could he be wanting Justice in the mix?

Surely he'd be aware of what would happen to Justice if he arrived in the prison-- if he wasn't lucky enough to be placed in Protective-- Parke's grim mention that "Protective is full" occurs to me-- he'd be eaten alive in there. Another Ron deLite, another Matt Engarde, another-- any one of the few unlucky inmates we've had who've been small and slight and completely lacking in street smarts and fighting moves.

 _Shit_.

"At the very least, he'd face disbarment, wouldn't he?" she asks. There's rising anger in her voice, and a waiter approaching as, with two steaming plates of food. Lauryn is thinking the same thing that I am.

"What do you think of your client  _now_?" she asks coolly.

"Nothing which would surprise me or change my opinion of him."

It's a somber conversation, and both of us smile unnaturally when our meal arrives. The waiter is clueless as to who we are and why we're here.

  
The worst of it, I think, when our conversation is thankfully halted while we're occupied with spices and noodles-- is that now I'm no longer in a position to find out what's going on from him. 

I don't want to fight with Lauryn, I don't want this battle, this plan, this insecurity-- to invade the one stable thing I can trust in my life-- the one little piece of sanity and human contact I have outside of my work and beyond the remnants of my family.

But what if what she's hinting at is true? What the hell have I been caught up in?

I feel as though I've been hit in the back of the head, while I wasn't even aware that anyone was following me.

 

 

 

Perhaps this is what Justice was referring to when he told me about what had happened at the meeting. But-- no-- it seems unlikely. He'd said that Gavin had  _confessed_  something to him. Something  _else_.

"I need to ask you," Lauryn says quietly, leaning over, her fork in her hand and her eyes not meeting mine-- "If your client said he was going to kill someone-- if he told someone else that he'd planned for the death of someone in advance-- would you believe him?"

I blink. I hadn't expected this. In that moment, that point between sharing a meal with a long time friend, almost having hoped that there  _was_  something else to the night out, I'm suddenly grounded, glued to the spot and horrified. This is not dinner time conversation.

"Can we talk about this somewhere else?" I ask, glancing around me. To every other patron in the restaurant, we could be a couple; we could be married. We could be close, though having a moment of discord because I work too much and she's spending up big on the credit cards. 

It's the sort of miserable normalcy I find myself longing for. I want this conversation elsewhere, but I want elsewhere to be now, I want answers and reassurances that I don't think I'm going to get; just a hum of ambiguous white noise. 

"I suppose it would be for the best." She nods and looks up at me then, smiling weakly. "You're not the only one who's been having work-related trouble," she says.

I don't know what the right answer is to that, and in the absence of work, with such overwhelming concepts to process, there's little else we can discuss. What the hell happened to the days of casual banter about the weird situations we found ourselves in, where we'd compare stories and neuroses and there was an element of dark-- but still  _present_  humour to it all? A casual groan and roll of the eyes as we shared battle stories about hearing the worst about other people's lives? When did this stop being  _fun_?

I finish my meal silently; there's no dessert and coffee for afterwards. I guiltily pay the bill for the both of us: is this what my ability to have a relationship has been watered down to?-- and we make our way out to the car park.

"It doesn't feel right talking about it here," she says. Around us, it's grown dark, and there's a chill to the usually tepid night air. Lauryn and I are both dressed for warmer weather; we're unprepared for this-- it's as though our clothing choices make for an unhappy metaphor for everything else happening. I don't mention it.

"My place?" I suggest, and she nods, heading to her car as I head to mine. 

I don't know what she's thinking as she drives towards my place; I wonder if she'll chicken out and not turn up, and ring later, unable to confront what now cannot be unsaid and undone.

I mentally curse Justice for his naive stupidity, for his  _attachment_  to Gavin, for his obedience and his damaged psyche-- and find myself realising the unfairness of doing so: he was merely shaped into what he became because of Gavin. 

I curse  _myself_ : why do I want to push the blame for Gavin's behaviour elsewhere? Am I projecting? Are the rumours at work true-- am I actually in Gavin's pocket now, ready to be pulled into line and shuffled around on his whims-- I'm just too ridiculously intrigued and seduced and  _attached_ \-- the same thing I'm angry with Justice for being-- to be able to see it for myself?

I don't know.

Would, or wouldn't-- Kristoph Gavin admit to someone else his intentions to commit murder? He didn't last time, I think, as I hear the first few bars of  _Guilty Guilty Love_ \-- a fucking  _Gavinners'_  hit-- start up on the radio. I hit the preset dial for the classics station.

As though on cue, familiar notes fill the car. Leonard Cohen.

 _Things are gonna slide_ _  
Slide in all directions  
Won't be nothing  
(Won't be nothing)   
You can measure any more..._

I turn the radio off, remembering what seemed an age ago, walking down that long corridor to the now-revamped solitary confinement cells, hearing Gavin sing along with this very song.

 _I've seen the future, baby,_ _  
It is murder._

Think, I'm telling myself, headlights blazing onto an empty road in front of me:  _think_. The silence in the car is unnerving and adding to my frustration--  _Would Gavin really have set up another murder?_  And if so, whose? Is it someone inside-- was he-- why the hell would he tell Apollo Justice? Why did Apollo seem so upset-- was it someone close to him?

  
I scan through the mental archives of what I know about Gavin. Was mentoring Justice. Was sexually involved with Justice. Became involved with Wright. Was sleeping with Wright-- a subject touched upon but not really discussed-- what the hell did he  _say_  about Wright? What sort of relationship did they have-- a fake one, one where Gavin held all the cards and damn well knew what he was doing, one where he was planning on ruining Wright at the end of it, toying with him for a little while longer-- and he  _knew_ \-- or was convinced-- and that's enough for me right now-- that Wright still held a candle for Edgeworth.

I turn off the freeway and a sickening thought occurs to me. I'm beyond wondering if Lauryn's following me home: would Gavin have set up a failproof insurance plan of some sort-- to screw Wright over if he were to have left, before he could have destroyed him when Zak Gramarye returned?

Why admit to it now?

 _Because he's got nothing to lose_.

And what to gain?

I think of Apollo, his highly strung, earnest mannerisms, his desperate and touching yet entirely messed up desire to still have the regard of the mentor who destroyed lives around his.

I find myself feeling sorry for him, feeling sorry for Lauryn who was, up until the information reached her, an innocent bystander peering in on someone else's trainwreck. 

Distracting myself, I wonder about the nail file-- how the  _hell_  did a metal nail object get past the detectors anyway? An alarm sounds when packages are scanned so even if the mail room inmates are corrupt, staff are alerted; either we're to expect the package's arrival, or it's already bypassed the safety net and is on the unit.

And what do I do? Admitting to knowing about it means that I have inside information which I'm not meant to be privy to.

It could mean the loss of a license for Lauryn. 

It would probably mean Apollo would lose his attorney's badge.

I swear, turning down my street, grateful to see the bright headlights of Lauryn's car behind me, then suddenly alarmed: how the hell do I talk to her about this? What am I supposed to say? My heartfelt, stern nod and discussion with Parke last week--  _Yeah, I'm straight_  seems like a lie now.

Do I betray my friend and ruin a helpless, screwed-up kid's life, or do I pretend I didn't know? And what happens if Wellington  _uses_  the nail file? 

Thinking of Wellington makes me uncomfortable: I know about his plan to draw Smeer to an unprofessional position, and I could have told Parke but didn't...

As I pull into my driveway and step out of the car, my sense of tension and nausea grows worse. It's like I'm falling down a pit, glancing upwards desperately, looking around me and realising that I'm condemned, I'm falling, I'm literally going to hell.

And I don't know how to make it better.

When Lauryn pulls up behind me, I barely notice. I hear the subtle click of her car door opening, and I'm still looking upwards, dreading the conversation we're about to have.

I can feel her arm over the back of my shoulder, a strange kind of comforting, and it gives me an odd sense of hope. Maybe we can work something out.

There's a desperate, need-a-happy-ending feeling in the air around me; my life can go to hell, but I'm not standing alone. When she peaks to me, her voice is cracked, as though she's been churning through the same thoughts I was as we were driving back here.

"I'm so sorry," she says hoarsely. "I don't know what else to say."

 

 

"I shouldn't have put you in this situation," she says quietly, and a shudder runs through me as she removes her hand. 

"Let's just go inside." The shudder has made its way into my voice, which rattles unsteadily. "I need a stiff drink."

"I'll join you."

Two glasses of bourbon and ice later, and we're in the living area, looking at one another. Lack of space makes us cozy; we're next to one another on the sofa because there is nowhere else to sit. Our glasses rest on the small amount of space within reach on the coffee table.

There is no hint whatsoever of intimacy.

"I realised-- I thought about it-- as we were driving back," she says. "I shouldn't have done it-- I should lose my license for this."

I don't say anything; I'm frozen. She's right. She leaked confidential information.

"So could I."

"I know."

She's shaking, and she reaches for her glass. The ice clinks against the glass, rattling as she brings it to her lips and takes an undignified, perfectly un-Lauryn-like slurp from it. "Jesus," she mutters to herself. 

"It's either destroy you and Justice, or go against everything I stand for." I take my own glass, and take a sip.

"I know what I want to say," she says quietly. "I know what it would be  _easy_  to ask you to do-- but-- I can't do that." She sighs. "I can't even help you make a decision-- but--  _shit_." The glass meets the tabletop. "You're the only one who has the ability to understand..."

The worst thing is about that statement-- is that she's right. Who else does Lauryn have to confide in-- where do psychiatrists debrief? Lauryn has a well-known profile, a business built on that-- I'm one of the few people she's trusted, one of the few she can trust.

And I've leaned on her more than enough, I know it. Turning away from her, throwing her to the wolves now-- seems unfair. 

I can't believe that I'm considering what I am.

"Look," I say quietly. "I think I've figured something out." I can shoulder this, I can do it, if my bizarre nonsensical conspiracy theory is right, then I have a problem on my hands. If I'm wrong--

"I can tell you wha--"

"Don't," I say. I sip my drink again, and reach out to her with my other hand, pushing my fingers to her lips. "Let me talk." I inhale deeply. "I have a theory-- and I'm going to put it to you-- and if I'm  _right_ \-- I can work out a way to handle it. Or maybe we both can." She looks at me, her eyes big and anxious. "If I'm wrong, forget I said anything. Don't tell me any more; I'll notify work somehow about the nail file being on the unit, and we'll sort out something from there. I still see that man-- Wellington-- I should be able to get information out of him about contraband if I need to-- he's after something-- they always are."

She nods. "That's very...  _unorthodox_ ," she says. 

"It's within my role as the prison's psychiatrist to tell the managers if I believe that someone's safety is at risk," I say. "And Wellington's always got an ace of some description up his sleeve."

She nods again, more slowly. "That's skating dangerously close to--"

"But it isn't anything I  _shouldn't_  be doing."

She smiles slightly. "Finding the loopholes," she mutters. "Maybe Gavin's rubbed off on you in a good way."

I shift back awkwardly. "Don't-- say that." I can feel myself shaking. "Now-- you know I saw Apollo Justice and I know he talked to you about what happened when he saw Gavin and Gavin told him something--"

She nods dumbly, looking at me, the expression on her face perfectly readable.  _Please don't be right_.

It's strange; in that moment, I have this knowledge, this sense, that I just  _am_. All roads lead to the truth eventually, or something-- someone said that somewhere, didn't they?-- I'm terrified but I have to say it, I'm mentally preparing myself for hearing her laugh and snort, watching her body relax as she puts the drink down and says that Gavin's paranoia and sense of the grandiose is rubbing off on me as well.

"Gavin set up a contingency plan with Wright, didn't he?" I ask.

 

She's leaning forwards, silent, her face hardening as though she's just trying to be an observer. My words speed up, in the hope that I can just be wrong and get this over with.

"While he was using Wright, he was scared he was going to leave-- or that his plan to topple Wright in court would fail: so, as with Drew Misham, he set up some sort of situation to make sure that Wright would wind up dead one way or another-- didn't he?"

I don't need an answer; the way her hand has crept to her mouth, the startled, small gasp that escapes her, and the glistening of tears in her eyes is all I need. 

I'm numb and I'm silent, studying her face, desperate to hear that I'm wrong.

"Shit," she breathes, the glistening in her eyes growing brighter as fat tears grow bigger-- "You're  _brilliant_."

That wasn't the response I wanted.

She's shaking, sitting there, looking at me. "You--"

"I figured it out, didn't I?" I ask quickly. 

She nods, covering her face with her hands, and dissolving into a flood of tears. "I'm so sorry," she says again.

And that's when I feel myself leaning towards her, offering a strange and sympathetic hug. It only crosses my mind then that it's been so long since I've touched another human being-- not  _been touched_  or been _assaulted_  or taunted or pushed or accidentally brushed someone, where I've legitimately and openly offered affection like that. I feel clumsy and awkward, but she doesn't care; she leans into me, sobbing against my chest, and I'm momentarily lost and confused as all hell-- how the  _fuck_  did this happen and why am I feeling so confused about what is supposed to be a gesture of empathy and kindness?

She doesn't move away. Even though I'm close to defending him, or trying to cover up for him because in doing so I'm covering up for her and Justice, even though she wants me to cover up for her leak yet she wants me to stand by my morals and keep my job-- even though the workings of my brain, what I figured out, this horrible cesspool of  _shit_  Kristoph Gavin has set up me-- realising it without being needed to be told-- means that I'm  _thinking like he is_.

Maybe it's the fact that she's my best friend, she's always been my best friend, and right now it feels like what I haven't lost is crumbling away from me rapidly, and that there's a sense of the two loners with uniquely fucked up circumstances facing the world and trying to make sense of it in a way most other people won't have to, but I realise some time later that the hug has turned into something else; comfort, my hands moving over her back, hers moving over mine-- this is desperate and wrong and  _we're the only two people who get this situation_ \-- and it's then when I start thinking to myself, as we attempt to shift closer to one another, that I can understand just how easy it was for Gavin to take Justice-- and Wright-- and possibly even Engarde-- into his arms, how strong the pull for comfort and human closeness can be when one is desperate and facing the sense they've lost everything.

I'll think about it in less abstract and more practical terms tomorrow morning, I tell myself as she tilts her head upwards, eye closed, and I find myself kissing the underside of her chin softly.

 

 

 

 

 

In the cold grey pre-dawn light of the early morning, I can't sleep.

I'm shaken; I didn't intend for any of this to happen. Lauryn didn't, either, and across opposite sides of the bed, we look at one another, confused, silently asking one another  _what the hell_ was _that?_  as the light from outside; the persistent glow of streetlights being cancelled out by the gradually emerging sunrise-- creeps up on us.

I'm exhausted and embarrassed and clammy and tired, but I know that sleep would just bring about nightmares; nightmares I'm only realising now; Gavin seeking me out after I'd washed my hands of him-- " _I have a secret_ "-- the way he pinched my cheek-- " _Are you seeing Engarde?_ "-- the contempt towards Wright, the taunts about Miles Edgeworth-- the nightmares my mind had already conjured to prevent me from getting a regular nights' sleep.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Lauryn asks, as the tension and the silence grows too thick and awkward, and it's something about the uncertainty in her voice that makes me snap; I walk through to the kitchen, roughly grabbing my bathrobe from the end of the bed as I go.

"No." Maybe I snapped more than I intended to. Coffee, the last refuge available to me, will pull me through this. Dammit, deNong is coming in to work today.  _Fuck_.

I start the coffee machine, and am surprised when I realise she's behind me, watching me.

"We probably shouldn't have done that," she says gravely. 

"I know."

She sighs, heavy and as exhausted as I feel right now. "I don't know what came over me."

"I think it's called being human and dealing with fucked up situations," I mutter. "And being poorly equipped to do so-- I don't remember any subjects in college addressing this."

There's the spit and hiss and splutter of the coffee machine, and it fills in the void of silence for a moment.

"You probably shouldn't be drinking coffee."

"It beats sleeping right now."

"Yeah."

I don't know what nightmares her brain might be conjuring up, and I don't want to think about them. 

"What are we going to do?" she asks.

"About...?" I stop there: it's a good question. There are too many things this could be  _about_. One thing at a time, the ball's in her park.

"Let's look at the whole situation that got us into this mess," she says, before cutting herself off quickly. "Not that this is a mess, or was a mess, or that--"

"I know what you mean. Gavin and Justice."

"Yeah." The coffee machine gurgles, and I look at what appears to be black liquid in the glass jug. "Coffee?"

"I suppose so."

I turn around to get mugs from the cabinet behind me, and I catch her smiling sadly at me. I want to address what's just happened between us, and I can't. I'll deal with things as I do at work: immediate disasters first, mental health afterwards. There's always time to debrief, there may not always be time to save someone's life.

"One overriding question has bothered me," she says slowly-- "Do you think that he was telling the truth?"

It didn't occur to me that this could all be an elaborate mind game.

"Who? Justice?"

"I  _know_  Justice was telling the truth," she says. "He was torn to pieces by it; he's a mess." Resting her chin on her hand, elbow bent on the counter in front of her, she looks thoughtful. "I want to know if this was just a story designed to screw with his poor little head some more or if Gavin wanted to test him in some way."

 

"Maybe he was working up to something," I suggest. It's terrifying; I, like Justice, thought I knew Gavin so well. Now, I'm like everyone else who's encountered him, struggling and grasping at possibilities in order to understand him and what he might do-- who he might harm-- next.

"We need to get Justice to tell the authorities," I say. "I can't do anything; I'm not meant to know any of this-- you--"

"I could say something," she says quietly. "It could be a criminal matter." She sounds nervous. "Though when I do, I'll have lost Justice-- and I'm worried about him." Her face is tight and hard. "He acts like he's this big man in the world, some sort of hero with everything resting on his shoulders-- I suppose Gavin allowed him to feel like that-- when-- underneath a lot of it, he's still an insecure kid with emotional attachments." She sighs. She could be speaking for a lot of us, I suspect. "And I worry, because he doesn't really have anyone else-- he has Klavier, but Klavier's a complete mess all on his own; he can't offer support in a concrete way. And Wright and Edgeworth..."

I hand her the cup of coffee I've poured, and she nods a thankyou. 

"He's going to feel as though I've betrayed him," she continues. "And he's already feeling as though he betrayed Gavin by telling me-- and you-- what he did."

"He told you more than he told me."

"Yes-- he was trying hard to only reveal scant details-- and then he just... cracked, the poor kid." She sighs, taking a sip of her coffee. "And then there's a practical consideration: betrayal and loyalty and honour might only be a small part of this-- think about what happened to everyone else who crossed Kristoph Gavin."

I'd thought of that. Vaguely. I suppose it hadn't occurred to me  _that_  greatly because of Gavin's lack of connections on the outside-- if Gavin had the contacts someone like Gant or Behr-- or even Engarde or White-- had, perhaps Justice could be fearing for his own safety.

"He's scared. As well as disgusted with himself for what he's done, even though none of it was his fault." 

I nod slowly, and a vague thought occurs to me, something to give me a vague sparkling of hope amongst all the turmoil.

"Perhaps he and Klavier are just what the other needs right now," I suggest, and she just looks at me sadly. 

Maybe, I think, in a messed up, childishly optimistic fashion, all we need when the world is collapsing around us is someone to be there beside us, to remind us that we're still human, and that we're not alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrics quoted, once again, from [i]The Future[/i], by Leonard Cohen. Used without permission.


	19. To the Side

I've heard it before from prison officers, workers on the floor; you cross the threshold and you become a different person.

You don't do it consciously, but you shift. Suddenly you're not Joe Bloggs who's spent an hour coming into work listening to Marty Rafferty's Golden Classics on the radio and trying to distract himself from the fact that his teenage son's been caught smoking weed in the sports shed and that his daughter's just demanded two hundred dollars for a Brazillian wax from someone who services the stars and that his wife is thinking about one last family trip to the Bahamas before everything goes to shit and global warming destroys what's left of the islands and time and stress and modern day life changes the shape of his family.

Joe Bloggs forgets about the lawn that needs mowing, the punks down the street who regularly set the neighbourhood's mailboxes on fire, the fact that the car needs retuning and Lenny's wife won't let them have poker nights at their place any more. Joe Bloggs forgets that five minutes before he found a parking space, he was humming along to Big Country and wondering about the price of gas.

It's the threshold, apparently, walk through that gate, and your mind switches; suddenly Joe Bloggs and his suburban misery are wiped away, he's  _Bloggs_ , prison officer, he's focussed, he's there for twelve hours of forgetting that the other twelve hours of his day are worse than these ones will be. 

  
The same thing happens to me. My mind jumps and switches; the situation with Lauryn is taking a backseat, the information about Apollo's confession, even, I'm focussed on my job, which today means staying awake and pretending that everything's fine and dandy.

I make my way through the unit; no one's up yet and glances through the windows on the doors show what most of the inmates are doing: grabbing a few more minutes of sleep before they're up and into the routine of the day. 

Crescend sleeps like a teenage boy still unfamiliar with his own body-- arms sprawled out messily under the covers, hair askew, dead to the world.

Moreau isn't asleep, he's already up, brushing his teeth at the sink and preparing for his day. Gavin sits on the bottom bunk, reading Dostoevsky--  _Notes from the Underground_ \-- he is oblivious to me and I'm grateful.

Gant sleeps soundly, a great lion of a man on his back, snoring softly and contentedly. It looks so  _normal_  that it's almost haunting: like Gavin, he sometimes manages to appear as though incarceration hasn't entirely gotten under his skin.

Wellington's awake, standing in front of the toilet. He sees my reflection in the metal safety mirror on the wall beside him, and grimaces before looking away.

I glance over them all, wondering what the day is going to have in store for them and what the hell deNong's visit will mean. It's then when the tiredness hits me, and for the first time I recall in my non-teenage years, I consider running down to the drug store half an hour away and getting myself caffeine pills. 

I have to stay awake, that's all, I reassure myself.

 

* * *

Smeer's in the staffroom with Lily, Denham and Towne-- Waverley walks in a moment after me, followed by Parke. All of us, I can see-- all of us except  _me_ , anyway-- look as though we've put a little bit of extra effort into our presentation. Lily's hair looks more stiffly tied back and glossier; Waverley's uniform looks crisper and neater; Denham's clean-shaven. 

"Morning," I say, making a beeline for the coffee. Lily raises an eyebrow at me; Denham and Towne offer casual not-really waves and murmurs of hellos.

Parke stands beside me, waiting to grab a coffee, and he looks stressed, as though despite the fact that his hair seems darker and slicker, he's had about as much sleep as I have.

I nudge him softly. Should I mention the fact that there's a nail file on the unit? Or should I do that in private? Perhaps mentioning something like this in front of Waverley and Towne isn't a wonderful idea-- especially not this morning.

Parke says nothing and raises an eyebrow. 

 ****

"I have something to talk to you about," I mumble to him, and he nods, understanding but acting as though he doesn't. Waverley catches us and shoots me a stony look. "What're you two whispering about?" he snaps.

I'm a terrible liar and I couldn't play poker to save my life.

"Nothing."

"Yeah, right-- you  _knew_  about this, didn't you?" 

I don't know how to respond, so I offer my standard method of non-reaction. It works with the inmates in most cases.

Parke ignores him as well, and fills his coffee mug. "Okay, folks," he says. "We all know that today's D-Day-- something's happening with the higher ups and they're getting a look around here-- deNong's scheduled to show up at around ten, so if I can have--"

"It's about the electrical faults, isn't it?" Denham asks. He looks bothered.

"Some fucking do-gooder decided to tell the electrical board--" 

"Whoever that  _fucking do-gooder_  was, Waverley," Parke says with dignity-- "I'm grateful to them. If someone was injured on the job because of those things--"

"Yeah, your ass would be sued, wouldn't it?" 

Lily is glaring at Waverley as he's talking, and she can't resist biting. "What if it was  _you_?" she asks him. "Wouldn't you rather they know about it and fix things before you get zapped with more volts than Damon Gant got?"

Sensing an argument on the way, Parke steps in. He sighs, looking at them as though they're a couple of squabbling children. "Look," he says over the gurgle of the hot water urn, an impolite belch which somehow eases the tension, "Regardless of why deNong's showing up, he  _is_ \-- and we need to deal with it." He doesn't look happy as he continues. "Now, we've got a heap of extra staff coming in, some are going to be doing rounds on the other units as well-- we're probably going to be the focal point given our...  _uniquely challenging_  cases... but everyone's going to get addressed in the kitchen this morning. Staff  _and_ inmates, just after breakfast-- so work detail's going to be a short shift in the morning." 

No one says anything, and he looks around, surprised at the lack of complaints and challenges.

"Right-- does anyone have any questions?"

"What's happening with the electrical contractors?" Towne asks.

Parke sighs, as though he's just been reminded that he does, in fact, have a migraine coming on. 

"Those idiots were hanging around here for ages, and now they're coming back?"

"deNong and I will be talking about that," Parke says. "Most likely, I'll be listening to whatever deNong wants done about it." He looks defeated, and sips his coffee. "Until then, folks, basic common sense: so far we only think the east side of the building running off the fourth grid is affected, so it's pretty much the bathroom and the corridors above that-- which should be easy enough to contain-- we've boarded over the power points in the bathroom because no one should be using them anyway, so that's fine-- failing that, there's the catwalk past the communications office and that section of the unit-- obviously I'm going to say the ban on food and drinks in the comms office now is extra-important-- it's no big deal, really-- just basic common sense."

Everyone murmurs and nods, though Lily looks concerned. "Are the union aware of this?" she asks.

Parke rolls his eyes. "What do you think?"

He looks around at the rest of us. "Okay," he says, as I slurp down the last dregs of my coffee. "Wakeup call happens in five-- we're all going straight through to the kitchen after that."

There's a mumble and a nod as we begin to scatter from the staff room. The day is just beginning.

It only occurs to me as I'm crossing the floor, watching the inmates be let out of their rooms and line for the morning headcount-- Callander still looks dopey and sleepy, Behr looks sharp and prepared and stoic, his muscles already taut and ready for action-- Engarde looks miserable and stares in the direction of Gavin and Moreau's cell-- though Gavin still has his nose in his book-- that I haven't mentioned the nail file which is either sitting in the mail room or somewhere, amongst these men, on the unit.

 

 

 

The kitchen is largely unfamiliar to me; it's rare that I'm on the floor and surrounded by so many inmates, seeing them in what's become their natural habitat. 

It smells different in here; of cooked watery meats and vegetables, of reconstituted fruit drink, of floor cleaner and bodies-- there's a hum in the air of discussion, the clink of cutlery on plastic, an incessant shuffling as inmates shift around, find their tables and sit and eat. 

Gavin stands out; it's the pale hair and the height-- my gaze is drawn to him as he sits down at the end of a bench, Engarde to his left, some B-unit men surrounding them. He's not reading; his book is placed in front of his meal tray, and a quick flicker of acknowledgement around him suggests that if anyone dares touch it, there will be hell to pay. Opposite him are Moreau and Callander who are eating their toast with conversation between mouthfuls; Gavin picks at the scrambled eggs on his plate disdainfully, leaning down to whisper something against Engarde's ear, against the exposed side of his face. Engarde twitches and distractedly nibbles a piece of toast.

I'm transfixed, wondering to myself if he really  _has_  plotted to harm Wright; how and when the idea occurred to him, what he was thinking; if he's thinking about it  _now_  as he's not really eating his breakfast. I'm wondering about the B-unit men; the Kitakis aren't too far away, though interesting enough, father and son are not sitting together. Wocky, short but bulky, appears to be the ringleader of the group of younger inmates who are loudly chatting and laughing at something else; Big Wins is closer to Engarde and not really involved with the conversation but keeping an ear out all the same, it seems, watchful and clever as a raven.

"They're up to something," Lily whispers next to me. Like the workers, I'm standing against the wall, observing, waiting for deNong to show up. Lily is scanning the groups of inmates as I am, and her notation that something is going on surprises me.

"He was eating up with the Gant crew yesterday," she mutters, "Now he's getting in with these guys?" 

I shrug, wondering what the hell  _else_  is going on, if Big Wins has some part in any of the drama which is about to unfold. 

As if he knows he's being spoken about, Engarde looks up, a charming smile on his face. "What?" he asks casually, still smirking at Lily. "What are you looking at me for?"

"Hands above the table, please, gentlemen," Lily says dryly, loudly enough for Waverley ---who is standing off to the side of us-- to shoot Lily a disgusted look as if to implicate her in something inappropriate. Lily ignores him, and Gavin shoots her a glare of contempt, placing his left hand on the tabletop next to his tray, and then raising an eyebrow at her, his expression asking " _Is that better_?"

She nods, and there's a murmur through the kitchen. From towards the front, there's a shrill whistle, and Parke's standing there, having momentarily interrupted the conversations and the noise. Somewhat unprofessionally, he's standing up on the serving bench, and he walks a few paces to the left, prowling, a lion overlooking his kingdom.

 

"All right, guys," he says, the friendliness in his voice not offset by the stern accept-no-bullshit undertone. "You might have noticed that lately, around here, we've had a few changes--" He gives the staff, dotted around the room, backed up to the walls, an appraising nod. "I know these fine officers here have noticed a few-- we're aiming to make this centre a stronger, safer place for everyone." 

There a few murmurs of disbelief amongst the inmates, someone catcalls him, and Parke ignores it, waiting for silence before continuing.

"We have a visitor with us today--" he says-- "As most of you know him-- a lot of you would have met him when you were admitted or have been applying for parole-- so he needs no introduction for many of you-- but for the rest of you lucky people--" he chuckles, and I crane my head to see deNong standing on the floor next to Parke, chuckling politely, laughing with his mouth but nothing else, not even concealing his animosity towards Parke-- "Dan deNong, Acting General Director-- has decided to pay us a visit today, and he's got some important news for everyone."

The reaction of everyone around us is interesting. There are vague mumbles as there were last time, an undercurrent of boos, and more chatter.

Parke sticks his fingers in his mouth and lets out a rip-roaring whistle. 

" _Guys_ ," he says. "Dan has shown up here for  _your benefit_ \-- so I trust that you will treat him with the respect and give him the attention deserved by any of our other workers on the unit."

Everyone falls silent again, and I see Parke's stressed face flush with genuine pride. They mightn't always like him, but at heart, they generally respect him. And deNong, visiting today, gets to see that. "Thankyou."

He steps down and there's a tepid round of applause for him. DeNong doesn't take his place, walking, instead, alongside the serving bench, his voice projected through some sort of training now that he's a higher-up.

"Good morning, gentlemen."

It's funny how someone can make a usually formal title into an insult, but deNong manages to. He paces the floor, almost strutting, arrogance leeching off him like the scent of expensive cologne.

Daniel deNong used to be one of  _us_ , I think, looking around at the staff; he was in Parke's role, and everyone had said that he was a good guy, a down to earth person-- and now, in a Mahler suit and smelling of a designer fragrance, he's different.

I can only look at him as he speaks, pretending that he's amongst the people, metaphorically on their level-- unlike Parke-- and my mind switches to one thing:  _he can't be trusted_.

"One thing," he says, "That I've organised-- and campaigned for budget for-- is extra  _services_ \-- I'm sure--" pace, pace-- "that several of you have met our new fulltime psychiatrist, Dr. Will Smeer."

From across the other side of the room, Smeer steps forward, and deNong moves towards him-- "Here he is, folks: hopefully this means everyone can get access to mental health services if they need them now--"

I watch as Engarde flinches, and notice Gavin knock him unsubtly, admonishing him for rudeness even though his nose is back in the book. Engarde says nothing, but looks at the plate of unappetising prison scrambled eggs in front of him, nudging the cooling lump of pale yellow with his fork, tempting it to react.

 

He says nothing, but, strangely enough-- of all people-- Behr does.

"Hey--" The kitchen seemed silent, but it's funny how an unexpected voice can make it moreso. Behr bristles, sitting up a bit straighter. "I mean no disrespect, but who changed the scheduling?"

There's a rumble then, and Behr's voice drowns it out. "Did you do that? Because a little flexibility might be good." There's a whine to his voice, and I look over towards Parke, noticing his face falling. 

I can't help but smile slightly. I'd seen Behr only a couple of times; maybe he wasn't really a candidate for mental health services, but he was on the level and could strike fear into the heart of the administration. I have no idea why he's standing up for me, if that’s what this is about.

"I don't understand what you're referring to," deNong says sharply, his face growing red with frustration. "Perhaps you could come and discuss it with me later on?"

"I mean, I'm seeing one professional when I arrive here, and suddenly this new guy-- no offense intended of course-- wants to run through my history?" 

deNong sighs, his breath escaping in a little huff. "We'll discuss it later," he says, his voice a glaze, glossing and smoothing everything over. He can't quite hide the look on his face, the uncertainty and irritation at being interrupted so publicly. 

"Gladly." Behr shifts in further to his table and unfolds his arms, but his eyes are still on him. I can imagine Behr in a former life, I realise, a calculating, businesslike contract killer and cleaner-upper of messes, eyes on the goal, trusting no one. It's terrifying, but in that moment, I'm grateful to him for some reason. It's a small victory, not even a victory, but it's something.

And then Smeer is introduced and there's another lukewarm round of applause. Gavin is still reading his book. Engarde is picking at a sore on his arm. It's... I want to say touching, but I can't. 

Lily clears her throat over the applause and Engarde hastily claps, his gaze meeting deNong's, and in a split second, I'm terrified he's going to snap and jump up, screaming obscenities. Gavin's acquiescence is to put the book down, a finger marking the point he's up to, but he doesn't clap.

The one I'm watching is Wellington, however, on the other side of the room; there's a hungry, fascinated look on his face as he glances at Smeer, who twitches under all the attention and applause. I see Gant, amidst clapping, say something about Wellington not needing therapy, and slapping him affectionately on the shoulder. Engarde is watching them, his lip curled in disgust. 

"I also have a special announcement to make at the variety show," deNong says-- "I hope that the acts are good ones this year, because I've got some important news that I think will be of interest to you all." He's wearing a Joker smile, too broad and loud to be serious, and I find myself glancing at Parke uneasily. Parke looks across the kitchen, towards where a group of the Rivaleses are sitting, raising an eyebrow at Simon Rivales as he tries to sharpen a fork handle against the floor. The fork goes back on the table, and Rivales looks sheepish for a moment before hastily looking towards deNong.

I wonder when he's going to get to what he's  _really_  doing here, when he finds whatever he's looking for. Maybe he just wants the assurance for himself that all is well.

I wonder if he's going to be stupid and short-sighted enough to get it.

 

 

It's just on midday when I sense that all is not well in the microcosm of the prison. 

It's not about the visit; deNong was either blinded by his own sense of over-inflated ego to believe anything could be wrong, despite the hiccup with Behr. 

My strange defence from Behr was all but ignored as the siren signalling the end of breakfast and the start of the workday sounded and the inmates lined up, ready to leave the kitchen. Smeer didn't even glance at me as he left, and it was only upon realising that that I came to realise I was looking at him, waiting for  _something_ , some sort of indication that he even  _acknowledged_  me. Apparently not.

I wanted to feel a sense of pride, that this was about me being clearly better at my profession than Smeer was, that Behr recognised this, but ego was brushed aside with the cold hard reality that this wasn't about me. It was about Behr wanting consistency and control, about Behr not liking to be made to do things or see people. If they'd told him he was strictly seeing me, he'd have demanded to see the new guy.

  
I'd walked briskly behind Parke as we filed out-- "I need to have a word with you"-- a  _word_ \-- understatement of the century-- and he gave me the sort of withering look as though it would have to wait until later.

I'd never really felt that  _displaced_  before. 

 

* * *

 

  
It's just before lunch when I'm drinking another coffee, in a disposable cup in my office this time-- when there's a hum of static on my radio, and a prison number read out coldly and crisply, "to visitation," and because I recognise the number, because I'm half-asleep and otherwise unoccupied, I open up Gavin's file on the computer.

 _Yep. I'm right._  I've seen that damned number enough to recognise it, it's burned into my head like a frequently-dialled telephone number-- and for some reason it startles me awake. Why the hell do they need Gavin in visitation?

Gavin doesn't have visits scheduled today, but I don't have much time to fit the pieces of the puzzle together; an announcement over the never-used public address system tells us that the unit's in lockdown until further notice on A wing, and that all inmates need to be accounted for.

And then there's the knock on my door, it opens automatically: my first thought is that something  _terrible_  has happened because the officers are busy with the lockdown--another incident like Roy losing his keys-- a  _riot_ \-- is afoot-- and then, there's the click of the door closing behind deNong and I realise that something terrible  _has_  happened: deNong is standing in my office. There's the momentarily louder scream of a duress alarm going off somewhere as the door is opened and then shut, and then what feels like silence even though it isn't.

deNong stares at me as though he's just realised I'm not merely a piece of office equipment. 

I am not in a position to deal with this, or with the look on his face, as though I'm somehow to blame for... for what? What happened this morning with Behr. I can feel my body stiffen instinctively as though I'm preparing for a fight becoming physical: fight or flight-- and in spite of the tiredness and the fact that I don't do workplace conflict very well anyway, I don't want to back down.

He smiles at me, coldly, in the way people smile when they're not really smiling but offering a mere formality.

"I understand that you seem to have some fans," he says abruptly, the smile stretching a bit further as I'm lost for an answer and trying to pull one together, and thoughts of Gavin and Engarde and now Behr race at me, full throttle.

deNong changes the subject. "I suppose you appreciate the cut in caseloads," he says. In a way that suggests that I'd better agree with him or  _else_. "I know that Smeer is looking forward to working with some of these guys." And then there's a much more genuine smile-- "He shows a lot of promise," he says. "Top marks from Ivy U, one of the youngest to be accepted onto the board of forensic psychiatrists in the state, and... a personal associate of mine."

 

Not that I can feel the sting of comparison or anything. 

  
Not that I  _should_ : I'm being bitter and petty-- it's stupid.

"I suppose you're glad to be free of some of the more time-intensive cases," he continues. "Which is great, because Smeer-- he's been chomping at the bit to work with some of these guys since he graduated."

 _Time intensive._  I want to laugh wryly and ask if he means the overtime that's involved with them, too, the disruption to friendships, the nightmares, the threats to personal integrity, the fact that I can't hear certain music on the radio without flinching. 

"I was actually going to ask for a broader caseload," I manage to tell him against my better judgement. "I'm actually feeling a little understimulated at the moment."

He claps his hands together and grins at me. "That's where your job title changes," he says. "The union have been pushing for a psychologist to deal with the staff's needs-- you know how it goes around here with burnout and all-- and since you have  _experience_  that Smeer doesn't have in regards to working in the industry-- since you're aware of the things about these men that he isn't-- I was actually coming here to offer you a new contract for a more prestigious role within the centre."

I shift back in my seat awkwardly.

"Dan," I say quietly. "I wouldn't know where to begin with the staff here."

"Nonsense." He shrugs at me as though I'm merely fishing for compliments. "For ten years you've seen the ins and outs of this place, you've come to understand how it runs-- probably even better than upper-level management like yours truly do." He places a white, A4 envelope on my desk. "There's a considerable pay increase involved here-- you'd be joining the ranks of the senior psychs, doctor."

It's the way he's just expected me to flick through and sign it which bothers me. But I'm not stupid enough to ask what happens if I don't want to. Simple. I keep my job and slowly get phased away. I'm between a rock and a hard place, and I'm slowly eroding. The rock and the hard place won't matter if I'm not there, will they?

I nod slowly. "I appreciate the consideration," I tell him. I'm trying to think of a way to wrangle myself out of this gracefully. I smile, glancing down at the envelope. "I'll have to have a read." 

"You can send the papers back through internal mail."

I watch as he relaxes and shifts across the room, pacing almost, his eyes still on mine, triumphant and irritating. I'm not being pushed out of my job; I'm being pushed  _away, in another direction_. That's all.

"Thankyou," I tell him as I'm sitting there, trying not to shake with anger or open my mouth.

"My pleasure." His voice is sweet and seductive, calm and warm and inviting, a glass of hot milk before bed at the end of a very long day. It's tempting to get caught up in it, to fall for his words and gentle flattery, but I can't. If I let my guard down, I'll be walked over. If I buy into what he's proposing, I'll lose anyway.

"Probably a lot more sanitary than dealing with those messy cases, isn't it?" He grins at me, like he's either sold on the idea himself or he wants me to be sold on it and he's aware that he has yet to convince me.

"Actually, I'd be happy to take some of my regulars back."

He eyes me then, suspicious. "Which regulars would we be talking about here, doc?" There's a playfulness in his voice I don't like then, like he's in on some conspiracy, it's all silly wink-wink-nudge-nudge suggestion. 

"Kristoph Gavin and Julian Callander," I tell him. "And... Daryan Crescend." I pause. I know Gavin trusts and likes me and I'm one of the few people who seem to have been allowed in. And that he's probably not going to cooperate with Smeer and that could be disastrous for the rest of the prison. Callander is a low-level situation; I'm still unconvinced that his medication isn't working and I'm loathe to see Smeer drug him up any more. And Crescend? Crescend is a sparkle of hope, for some reason, that somewhere in the bowels of a prison, hope and determination and concern for others-- and perhaps, in a way-- rehabilitation is possible. 

"And Damon Gant."

 

deNong laughs. "You like the big name long-timers, don't you?" he asks with a chuckle. "The psychopathic lawyer, the kidnapper who had the country terrified, the rock star and the police official whose name _still_  comes up when some moron wants to talk about corruption in law enforcement." He turns serious. "I can't help you there, doctor," he tells me gravely. 

I want to know  _why_  and I know he won't tell me and I know he wants me to ask. So I don't.

"Gavin is a drain on the economic resources of the prison," he says. "Weekly sessions for a man spending the rest of his life here is a ridiculous financial strain on the system." He pauses, as my mouth opens, ready to offer a counter-argument. But I can't argue with economics: he's right on a purely fiscal level. And he doesn't want to see any others.

"Perhaps we would all benefit if Kristoph Gavin's love of psychiatry was tainted a little."

He doesn't say it in a corrupt, villianesque fashion, but a perfectly cold one as he continues. "And anyway-- weren't you requesting to have Gavin reallocated some months ago?" Raised eyebrows. 

I'd never thought that could backfire.  _Shit_. I don't know what to say to that, either: he's correct again. And the argument for me being kept with Gavin was that it wasn't economically viable to have a second psych working with this client base. Now, it is. Problem-- theoretically-- solved.

"As for Callander, I understand that he committed a sexually-based offense which would have been impossible while he was your patient-- so if you'll excuse me for saying so-- I think that the psychiatrist who has published a critically-acclaimed paper on pharmapsychotics in forensic settings is a  _much_  better judge of Callander's treatment than you are."

Arguing would be fruitless. I just want him out of my office; I feel like a small child not only being told that I can't have more, but why I don't deserve it, and why the other kids do.

"And Crescend-- he seems to be an easy case for a fledgling psych in this area." deNong sighs, like an exasperated parent talking to a big brother or sister who won't share toys. I feel momentarily guilty: is my desire to see Crescend more about my needs than his? I hope not.

I nod.  _Fine_.

"And Gant...? Gant rarely requires psychiatric services anyway." He looks puzzled for a moment, and then I feel my blood thicken. He might know what I suspect. And it might be true.

Which would be even more of a reason to get rid of me as quickly as possible.

"I've worked with Gant before," I tell him, trying to stay steady. "Gant and I appear to have a good relationship."

"Who doesn't have a good relationship with him?" deNong asks. 

" _Matt Engarde_." I can't help the kneejerk reaction, but I'm furious. 

"Oh?" he asks. "And why is that?"

And I'm stuck again, because Engarde has never made a formal complaint against Gant for anything, and it could all be petty in-fighting started over something as trivial as who got to choose prime seating in front of the television to deNong.

"Engarde?" he asks. "I was surprised the bastard was still kicking when I saw him this morning." He chuckles; it's a joke I'm supposed to be in on. I don't find it particularly amusing.

He turns to step away; perhaps he has other things to do, perhaps he's bored with the conversation. "Look," he says. "I can't work miracles." He shrugs, and smiles, indicating the envelope on my desk.

"Have a look at the contract."

I nod, and he doesn't even offer to shake my hand. I don't say anything when he decides it's time to leave, abruptly turning and letting himself out. 

At least I know where I stand with him, I suppose. 

Even if it's six feet under.

 

 

 

It's not long after he's gone that I rediscover that strange craving I sometimes have for a cigarette.

I'm furious. I'm beyond furious; with the fury comes a stung humiliation at my own awareness that no matter how long I've been here, I'm still easily pushed around like a pawn on a chessboard by someone like deNong. Then there's the knowledge that Smeer can sit and gloat all he wants to.

I wonder if that was why Gavin attempted to destroy Phoenix Wright. Because of that sting. Because of the cheated unfairness of it all; for not winning a hand of cards and then being cast aside, useless in the eyes of some man who knew nothing of the law or Gavin's professional achievements, but who chose Wright as he lawyer based on something as irrelevant as a game of cards.

Because right now, completely lacking in objectivity and hideous as it is, for that moment, I can understand all too clearly the rage-inducing madness he must have been going through. 

It's ironic that I feel like I've finally grasped it, finally understood at least part of the horror of the way his brain operates, gotten closer to him without expecting to and without him having anything to do with it; and now--  _now_ \-- he is no longer my client.

 

I don't know what's going on as I walk through the unit and to the staff room.

There's banging and yelling and I don't know how to find out what's going on; there's a whoop of excitement from Crescend which makes me smile wryly and continue wondering; then there's Gant looking smug, smirking across the unit at Engarde. For a brief moment, as I see Engarde strike the air in front of his throat with a defiant and threatening gesture-- I roll my eyes at the stupidity of placing them within one another's view like that-- then I'm bitterly reminded that it's no longer my concern.

Nor is the way Callander's jumping around on a mattress, giddy and over-stimulated by the day's events, yelling out to himself. 

"Pigs, pigs, piiiiiigs! That's why we got lockdown--  _piiiiiigs_."

I walk on to the staff room, grab my cigarettes from my coat pocket and head outside. 

I feel as though I'm invisible.

 

 

The air around me is still. Still and warm and looking out into the distance, I realise that the weather is  _nice_  this afternoon. It's rare to see natural daylight; the prison design attempts to remove much of it from the inmates: prison becomes a factory, a shopping mall, a casino. Time is suspended and meaningless when you cannot rely on the base marker of it-- hours, days, seasons, even-- aren't as easily noticeable as they are for the free citizen. 

The people who work long hours with them lose time in the same way, so it's almost a luxury that I'm out here: I can enjoy a few dying strains of sunlight; it's a nice day. That's enough to make me smile. 

I light up, leaning against the wall behind me, inhaling on my cigarette and sighing deeply. I close my eyes, suspending time for myself; here, I don't really have to be reminded of where I am, I could be on a Tahitian beach somewhere as Liz and I were when we'd saved up enough to have a decent honeymoon, five years into our marriage for the anniversary. Either my job hadn't started taking over my life then, or it had, and Liz was too busy dealing with her own stuff to notice.

I open my eyes and jump, the cigarette moving as though ready to fall from my mouth when I see Lily standing next to me.

"I saw you leaving on the security cameras," she says. "I think you left just as we were finishing up-- I figured no one had told you and you deserved to know what all that was about."

It's touching that she remembered me.

"Know what?"

"Gavin was interviewed for forty five minutes and taken away in handcuffs. He's been charged with attempted murder, conspiracy to commit murder, possession of a controlled substance and a range of other things."

I feel ill. And it's not from the tobacco and fertilizer and rotting bird shit and rat poison and nail enamel remover or whatever else I'm meant to be inhaling, too. In amongst all the drama of deNong's visit, or perhaps because I'm too tired to deal with thinking about anything which makes me think about Lauryn, I'd forgotten about Apollo's confession and the new atrocities committed by Gavin.

"What?" I exhale a plume of grey-blue smoke, trying to sound a bit more startled. Lily looks at me as though she can see right through the act, as though she suspects that I know already, that I suspected this to happen.

I blink when she doesn't elaborate. "What happened?"

"You don't know already?"

" _No_." Nothing from what he's told me, anyway. I'm silently grateful that however this became public, it had nothing to do with me. It's got to be Apollo, I think, Apollo or Lauryn. Or perhaps it's Gavin himself, pulling on the system's leash for a cheap laugh.

  
Lily lights up a cigarette of her own and starts to explain.

"Gavin's been taken away to the lock up cells; he's being remanded for the charges... we'll get him back in three days anyway given that he's still got a life sentence anyway..." She sucks on the end of the cigarette.

"What happened? What was the controlled substance?"

"He didn't say. He sat there the whole time with this creepy smile on his face, playing games with the cops when they came in. We've deduced that there was some elaborate plot he had set up a few weeks before his ex and his assistant started getting friendly; apparently he did the same sort of thing as he tried on with that artist he killed: atroquinine being the  _controlled substance_  lovingly left for his beloved to find somewhere in the apartment or in his personal items."

"Where did he leave it?" 

I'm actually curious. Because the last time Gavin killed, his plan was almost thwarted by the intended victim not consuming the atroquinine... until much later on. In all the time since Gavin had been involved with Phoenix Wright, times had changed-- poisoned food would be no issue because food would be eaten or replaced.

 

Perhaps this was another failed plan. If so, why would everyone be so concerned about it?

"No one knows," Lily says dryly. "And we were all wondering that by the time he was walked out of there--"

"But Wright and Edgeworth moved  _out_  of that apartment," I point out. "Unless he's put atroquinine in an expensive and aged bottle of wine or something, how could he have managed...?"

"We're  _all_  wondering that, doctor." She sighs, and a little exasperated puff of smoke comes out of her nostrils. She looks like a feisty, irritated dragon in that moment; tough and annoyed and yet not roaring and striking but perfectly capable of doing so if she wanted to. "All he did was sit there and smile, pushing his glasses up his nose and asking the police about who still worked at the Department of Public Prosecutions."

"Maybe he wants another showdown in court with Klavier?"

"Perhaps." She flicks some ash on the ground. "I must say, I'm almost beyond giving a shit. I guess you're pleased that he's been handed over to Smeer, hey?"

And I get a playful punch on the shoulder and a broad, tobacco-stained smile from her and I'm torn between wanting to be one of the team and to nod along, and to be honest and point out that no, I  _want him back as my client._

I don't dignify her comment with a response.

"I dunno what they're thinking, though," she continues, her gaze moving up to the sky, helpless, as though she's subconsciously hoping there's a god up there who'll listen: "I mean, Smeer's a nice guy and all, but I dunno how Gavin would be treating him."

Schaudenfreude makes me smile slightly. "He's actually quite pleasant to deal with as a professional worker," I tell her.

"Except for when he's telling you about how he likes torturing people and blackmailing people and about how much fun it was raping his little brother." She can't help the sarcasm in her voice. It's Lily, pure and simple. It's all bullshit and mindgames to her.

"He didn't rape him."

"Please." Lily puts a hand up, as though defending herself. "I don't wanna know, doc." She sucks in more cigarette smoke and looks at me again, waving her hand as she's speaking. "Anyway, he played that sort of game with the cops, too-- _maybe I did, maybe I didn't, did you know, sir, that atroquinine causes muscle spasms, that the back arches up and it looks hauntingly like someone at the peak of orgasm when they do so._.."

She impersonates him, but the way her voice jumps when she's clearly bothered by what she's saying, and the way she doesn't maintain that almost curious, amused lilt to her tone, the way she lacks the clarity of someone who probably learned to speak another language before English-- it makes her sound like a poor facsimile. 

"Did he say that?"

" _Yes_." She can't hide the disgust in her eyes. "It was  _creepy_  the way he watched them as he spoke. Like he was lining them up in a row and working out where and how hard to strike."

"He-- does that," I tell her. "You get used to it."

"Well talk about throwing the new guy straight into the deep end." 

I can't help but be slightly annoyed at her concern for Smeer when she says that; the fact that Smeer  _wanted_  Gavin only adds to my irritation. 

"He'll get used to it, I guess."

"I hope so..." Her brow furrows. She's bothered. "If they call for witnesses in court, he'll be the one called in, won't he? Since he's now officially Gavin's psychiatrist." She blinks, looking at me again, as though she's nutting out an idea that's just occurred to her. "Did you  _know_?" she asks. "Did he ever  _tell you_?"

"No. Not a word." I flick some ash from the end of my cigarette. "He alluded to having a secret a fair while ago, but there was nothing explicitly stated."

"You just seem so unsurprised by the whole thing."

Then I'm the one blinking, wondering if this is some sort of test from her. Wondering what she suspects about me, what she thinks I might have, could have already done.

  
"You weren't keeping this under wraps, were you?"

" _No_." Not really. I straighten myself up; I'm defensive and growing more annoyed. I can't tell her about Lauryn and about Apollo Justice; their truth wasn't mine. 

"I always wondered how I'd go about handling that," she says with a sigh. "I don't envy the position you're in-- on one hand, as a case worker, I'm trying to build rapport with my clients, trying to get them to trust me, on another hand, I went into this line of work because I care about justice. And I just couldn't let something like that slip."

"He didn't tell me anything about it," I say diplomatically. "Perhaps he felt the threat had gone, that his attempt to kill Wright was another failed attempt on someone's life. Maybe he forgot about it."

"I sincerely doubt that," she continues. "He's shrewd and he's a schemer. He doesn't just  _forget_  things." She gives me a withering glare. "You know that better than I do."

I decide to change the subject. "I wonder what they're going to do with him-- he's already got life, hasn't he?"

"They'll probably give him another fifty years or something." She shrugs at me. "Not that I think he's going to care at this stage. It's not like he has anything to lose any more."

She exhales again and looks at her watch. "I should have been back on the floor by now," she tells me. "See you in there, I suppose."

  
And I'm left alone then. The clouds have grown thicker and hazied up the sky; it's-- quite fittingly-- no longer such a nice day any more. My mind is flooded with questions: who spoke up about Gavin, what's happening to him at the moment-- and more importantly,  _why_  did all this happen  _now_?

Lily's suspicion bothers me because it means I can't quite trust her, and her friendliness towards Smeer puts me on guard: which group is she running with now? 

I think about that white envelope on my desk, that contract for talking to staff, realising that I already do that on some level, and that I really,  _really_  would rather  _not_  make a career out of it. 

Before I'm done for the day, it lies in ribbons of spaghetti at the bottom of the shredder under my desk. 

I didn't even open the damned thing.

 

 

 

"So I heard you might be leaving us."

Parke doesn't sound pleased about it; there's a joyless sarcasm in his voice and worry which he's unable to successfully hide. 

"Where would you have heard that?"

"Grapevine," he tells me, noncommittal and bothered, closing my office door behind him and sitting down at my desk. "Looks like you had a decent night's sleep last night, too." He raises an eyebrow.

"I'm still thinking about it," I tell him in vague tones. "I can't help it." A shrug for emphasis. "Perhaps I need a break from this."

"At least they finally gave you a break from Gavin, right?"

Why does everyone think I loathe him?

Probably because to love the guy, to be interested in him and proud of the connection-- is several types of disturbing. No one wants to see me like that; I'm the good doctor. I'm not someone who can identify with sociopaths at all.

"Speaking  _of_  the devil," he continues, laughing at the unamusing pun-- "we have some detectives dropping by for search the room Gavin was in in case he was doing what he was doing from prison..."

"I doubt it." 

"Yeah, you and me both, buddy, but they want to be sure." He stops, folding his arms in front of him. "You know what they're like, though: it's a political minefield, right now. Everyone's competing for funding and the more dirt they can get on us and how lax this place is, the more we can get shellacked and the more the political campaigns about tough justice are going to work. They'll use it as proof that we  _need_  more regimented prisons." He sighs. "In a way, it works well for the economical types: we get attacked for our bad workers, the union steps in, and the criticism falls on the fact that we're underfunded. Then we get government assistance to tighten up the security on the premises, don't we?"

Parke's voice is rising and his volume is increasing. He's not impressed, but he speaks the frustrating, ugly truth of the matter.

"So the unit is still on lockdown?"

He nods. "We've shifted Moreau into a spare for the time being and Gavin's cell has been declared a crime scene. The previous cell he was in is to be searched, too: Engarde was pulled in for questioning but refuses to say anything." He doesn't look pleased. "And he won't, either. And he probably knows about it: all he's done so far is giggle and make inappropriate comments or talk about things Gavin obviously hasn't done, like that stupid rumour about Dingling."

"There are other rumours?"

Parke sighs. "Apparently he's got video footage of him violating Phoenix Wright, and you're not working with him any more because..." And that's when Parke trails off, his face going red. He doesn't want to tell me, but I want to know.

"Oh, so the rumours involve me now?" It's all false bravado, the way I grin and chuckle. "I suppose they involve everyone else the guy's spoken to: why  _not_  me, as well?"

Parke doesn't answer me.

"What was Engarde saying?"

"Apparently it's what Engarde and  _most of the prison population_  aren't just saying, but they  _know_."

And yet, he still won't tell me.

"What  _was_  it?"

"Apparently he seduced you."

I burst out laughing, but the moment the laugh has hit the air, fresh and free and a bit too loud, I'm wondering if I'm masking my own discomfort, my nervousness and horror at the fact that it  _could_  somehow be true. Current affairs aren't necessarily the truth, but what the majority already believe to be the truth.

"That's funny." 

Parke gives me a dark look. "Not when he's talking to investigators about it, it isn't."

"Everyone knows he's just looking for an audience and some street cred."

"These guys might just investigate every nook and cranny and christ knows what they'll turn up," he says.

"Have they found any of this substance in his cell?"

"They haven't searched yet."

 

 

 

"Turned up nothing." The senior forensics specialist looks across Parke's desk at us, her hazel eyes stern and unimpressed. 

"Did you test it properly?" The detective with her, a burly looking man in a dark green trench coat, looking every part the noir hero only with an almost worried softness in his face, turns to her. "I mean, those chemical analysis things aren't always accurate, are they?"

She doesn't dignify his doubt with a response, instead, wrinkling her pert nose and turning to the side. "I suppose this means that we have to test other locations," she says. There's a hint of glee in her voice, and I look at her in that moment; despite the cynicism in her voice and the hardassed nature, she seems to have a sense of fun about her. Bright pink glasses rest on top of her head, and little circular badges, completely unofficial and random, are dotted along her lab coat. I suppose you need to have a sense of the quirky in a job like hers.

"So this concludes your business here?" Parke asks her.

"Yes." The detective stretches out a bulky hand to shake Parke's. "I'm sorry we couldn't find anything, pal."

"I'm not," Parke mutters, and the forensics specialist doesn't look impressed, her face growing stormy. 

"So you're hoping the attempted murder was set up well before Gavin arrived at the prison-- or that the evidence was destroyed?"

"No. I'm just glad not to have more paperwork and a crime scene on my hands."

She snorts. "I want this  _solved_. This case happens to affect people I know and care about."

I could say the same thing, I realise, in a disturbing sort of way.

  
I wasn't even introduced to these people; Parke and I returned to his office for a brief discussion, and moments after, they knocked on the door and came in to discuss the situation. And I find myself feeling sorry for her. The detective, too, when he nods and offers a grave "Me too, pal."

There's an awkward silence.

"So what happens next?" Parke asks.

"We search other areas of interest," the woman says. "We run tests."

The detective smiles as he turns to us. "It's great what they can do nowadays," he says. "Just a few squirts of some chemicals and..."

"I don't want you to touch my equipment. You managed to almost blind yourself with the reactant--"

I can't help but stifle a chuckle; they're such a mismatched pair and both so quirky that I find them amusing. Maybe I'm becoming like the inmates, interested in the idea of new faces on the unit. I try to avoid thinking about that.

"Have you any other areas of interest?" Parke asks. "Is there a reason the prison was searched first?"

"We're working from the most logical location backwards."

"That makes sense." Parke nods. "I hope you manage to find something elsewhere, then."

"I'm concerned that any evidence might have been destroyed by now. He's been here for eight years, hasn't he?"

The detective's expression is glum, too, but a spark of something, hope, I guess, comes onto his face.

"If I know Mr. Edgeworth," he says, "He's thrifty and he's organised. He might have held onto our evidence without even realising it," he continues, beaming. "He keeps everything perfectly organised..."

The woman lets out an exasperated sigh. "He could have destroyed the evidence, too, in that case."

"So where do we go from here?" Parke's expression is clear: he doesn't care about the investigation. He wants to know how this is going to affect him and the prison.

 

"Where ever you want," she tells him. "At the moment, Gavin is detained in the cells down at the precinct, the prosecution has been organising some witnesses and--" She smiles. "I suppose if you watch court TV, you'll be seeing the rest of it, won't you?" She doesn't sound happy. She sounds  _busy_ , like she needs to get back to what she's doing, driven by some urge beyond to piece together a puzzle.

"How is he faring?" I'm surprised to see Parke sounding so concerned.

"I don't know," she says. "And I don't care, either." 

"That's harsh, pal."

"It's  _true_." Suddenly, she's changed; she's not irrationally terrifying, which is probably what makes her scarier than if she was: there's a human and real intensity to her. "I know what this man is capable of," she says. "I've seen him destroy the lives of so many people around him--  _good_  people." Her eyes narrow and she looks furious. "I'm just glad Payne's taking this case and not either of the other big names."

The detective nods. "Yeah," he says, and they're lost in conversation amongst themselves.

Parke clears his throat. "So you're all done here?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes." With a flick of a hand, she produces a business card, white, like her lab coat, with an emblem of a fingerprint and a magnifying glass enlarging some of the swirls and broken lines of it. "If anything comes up, though," she says. "Any suspicions, any hearsay, please-- don't hesitate to contact either the good detective or myself."

Parke gives her a curt nod though they're still standing there. The detective nudges her with his shoulder, a laughable gesture given the differences in their sizes, and she looks jolted, as though reminded of something she'd have preferred to forget.

"How is Daryan Crescend?" she asks.

"Doing well," I blurt out. Parke merely nods.

"Still working on his music?"

"Yes."

She smiles faintly. "I'm glad," she says, a little bit more quietly than before. "I always was a bit of a Gavinners fan." 

For a fleeting moment I catch a look of sadness on her face, coming into her eyes, and then flickering away, chased off by grim determination.

"Come on," she says to the detective, ignoring Parke and I. "We need solid evidence in the next two days, don't we?"

The detective nods, and utters a "Thanks," in our direction as they leave the office. 

I turn to Parke. "I can't say I'm unsurprised that they didn't find anything in the cell."

Parke's mouth becomes a thin, angry line. "You didn't know about this?" he asks me, incredulous and annoyed. "Just what the fuck was Gavin doing?"

 

 

 

The evening felt strangely empty. I had the kind of hollowness in my day that left me unable to sleep; my thoughts spiralled to not what was happening but what wasn't: I was steadily losing everything I had left, I realised, over a pre-dawn whiskey and a glimpse out into the neon-lit night sky. 

Sleep. My clients. My  _position_.

Lauryn. 

Lauryn hadn't called and I hadn't called her. I couldn't: for once, words and conversation, two things which were my occupational backbone, failed me. If this was someone else's life, I'd be fine, I could sort it out. The fact that it was my own got in the way.

Then there was Gavin.

I'd grown used to seeing him on the unit; the idea of not seeing him about was weird. For months, he'd invaded my space, he was an infallible  _there_  and now...  _gone_. To...  _what_? To return, soon, of course, and for the first time in my career with the prison, I found myself wondering about the miniature of his time in the detention centre. Was he being treated well? Was he sleeping at all? Was the loss of a cell mate disconcerting to him? Did the lack of buzzers and noises and torchlight in his room bother him at all? Was he just longing for the return to prison and the trial to be over, or was he enjoying his time away?

And what of Engarde?

  
It's amusing that Engarde is the first inmate I encounter the following morning; it's after eleven and he's agitated, pacing the corridor angrily, kicking in doors as hard as he can. Hamm is waiting down one end, trying to distract him, beyond the catwalk up near the medical clinic is what is now Smeer's office. I wonder how he's managed to decorate it. I wonder if deNong gave his little protege special privileges there, too.

"I need to see the fucking  _shrink_." Engarde sounds upset, reverting to an almost cute, childlike tone; he's not an adult in his thirties, he's an angry six year old, screaming and whining and kicking things. He's posing no risk to property or staff, but he's noisy and annoying. When I see him there, he pauses, looking at me, as Parke emerges from the other end of the corridor, gruff and annoyed. 

"Shouldn't you be in work detail, Engarde?"

"Fuck you." Engarde looks wild and feral; as though he's had no sleep, his hair greasy and floppy, his muscles tensed and needing to hit something. He controls his voice slightly for Parke, but only just. "I need to see that fucking cocksucker of a shrink," he growls. "He fucked up my meds and I can't sleep."

And then he spies me and his voice softens a little. "Hey," he says, stopping. "What's up, doc?" A giggle before he turns serious. "Why can't I see you again, man? This is  _fucked_."

Parke moves towards him, angry and uncompromising, and he shoots a death glare at Hamm. "I believe you're meant to be in work detail..."

"I believe," Engarde hisses, "Under section three point nine dee of the Corrections Act, you're supposed to be providing me with adequate psychiatric treatment, and this isn't being done at the moment."

It's creepy the way his voice turns into Gavin's then; it's creepy the way he's remembered a section of legislation-- but he's an actor; it's all lines and presentation of them, isn't it?

"We're doing the best we can," Hamm offers helplessly. I can see his hand on his hip, fingertips on top of the duress alarm. 

"No he's not," snaps Engarde. "He's in there with Wellington. For some reason  _Wellington_  bitches about something and gets to see a new psych ASAP and I'm pushed aside the queue."

Hang on? Wellington has been reassigned? I can feel a hotness and anger burning into my face. I'm conflicted. Wellington wanted to be seeing him, I didn't want to be seeing him given his propensity for malingering and drug-seeking and just refusing to cooperate; I should be  _pleased_. But he's been reassigned with absolutely no consultation with me. 

I wonder who else I may have lost or gained.

 

"You just need to give us some ti--"

"Fuck that." Engarde pushes his back to a door and kicks behind him like an angry horse. There's a loud metallic bang, but the door does nothing. 

"Engarde--" Parke says angrily as Engarde returns to his pacing-- "You'll be spending the rest of the day in iso if you don't shift yourself down to the mailroom..."

"Where the fuck is Gavin, too?" he snarls. "You know, don't you?" 

Parke says nothing, and I can practically see what he longs to say: to mention current privacy legislation about disclosure of court cases in progress. 

He doesn't.

"And  _you_  know, don't you?" He looks at me. "Wright's gone and been a rat and has leaked about him doing his intern, hasn't he?" He's growing angrier. "Did you have to testify against him?"

No. No one asked me. That will be Smeer. I don't say anything and he aims a kick at another door, pacing away as Parke shifts towards him.

Last chance. Been. Gone.

I see Hamm advance upon him, and then Engarde shuffle towards the next door, Smeer's, I think, amused, and then another almighty kick.

The door, to everyone's surprise, it seems, flies open. Engarde hits the floor, a code violet ("Man down, man down, a-wing clinical corridor") is called by a bewildered looking Hamm, and suddenly, there is a small crowd of us around the door leading into the office.

One thing an actor knows how to do is to provide a good show for an audience. 

  
In the not-even seconds when it all comes together, the attention swiftly shifts from Engarde, getting up off the floor to what we've walked in on. 

Smeer's chair is bent back at an odd angle, and his neck is bent back at an even odder one. Soundproof walls served him well, it seems, though they had been his downfall in this instance; he'd missed the closeness of what was happening, the fact that his private moment was about to be interrupted.

Amongst the chaos, Wellington sheepishly crawls out from under Smeer's desk, turning around to flash a wide smile at the rest of us, the sort of smile a hunter gives a camera as he's holding something he's just killed.  _Look what I just did. I'm awesome._

"Holy  _shit_."

Maybe I'm the only one who's heard Engarde because the others have descended on Wellington and Smeer.

"This is  _awesome_." Engarde is giggling to himself, and has calmed. Parke glares at everyone, and in an unamused tone, turns to Hamm.

"Get Dr. Smeer to my office and Wellington into isolation," he says. "And Engarde can go back to the mail room until he's called for." He doesn't look pleased at what he's doing. Field and Stone move towards Wellington who shakes himself off jauntily, grinning at Engarde. "Someone owes me some money," he says in singsong, and Engarde glances at Smeer, who has his back turned to everyone, and then back to me-- and then finally, to Wellington.

"When you get out of the hole," he sneers. He taps Parke on the shoulder, his expression harmless and dutiful. "He's got a shiv on him, too," he says smugly. "Bladed-- he's apparently going to slice me open in front of Gavin when he comes back from court."

Wellington's smile fades with the knowledge of an implied cavity search, but he doesn't say anything.

 

Parke looks at the so far cooperative Wellington and his workers. "Get the wand," he says, shooting Engarde a look of disgust. It's a clever response; on one hand, he'd not ignoring threats to the security of the centre, on another, he's not giving Engarde the satisfaction of all but ordering an indignity upon Wellington.

  


A few years ago, when we had a lot of new inmates and there was a state inquiry into legislation regarding prisons, it seemed that every five minutes someone was yelling "contraband" about someone else, knowing full well that they'd be hustled away somewhere and strip searched. Officers could authorise searches if they had "reasonable grounds" to believe they needed them. Ignoring a tip off, especially not long after the riot-- would be stupid.

Engarde's smile fades. "I'm  _serious_ ," he says angrily. "He got it sent in."

Parke looks at him witheringly, and Tona appears with the wand. Wellington steps back; around the air, arms up, leg up, down, up--"

"You can go now," Parke tells everyone-- "Wellington-- iso, Smeer-- my office, Engarde-- get the fuck back to work."

It's an attempt to control the situation, and it almost works. 

"I need my fucking meds fixed." 

Remaining an outsider, but spinning around in his chair, for the first time becoming a part of what's happening despite being a key player, Smeer turns around. "Mr. Engarde," he says gently. "We've talked about this before: we can't change your medication around too quickly because there will be side effects-- and we can't decide something isn't working effectively in the first couple of days, either."

"Fuck you." Engarde spins around and looks at me. "I want to see  _him_ , anyway. Why the fuck did they stop him seeing people, anyway?"

It's childish manipulation, but I can't help but feel flattered. And slightly guilty: I asked deNong about clients who I wanted to see because in some way, they felt important to me. Engarde hadn't made it onto the list.

"Engarde--"

" _No_ ," he snarls at Parke. "You people let the resident  _Playstation_  switch shrinks so he can--"

"Wellington's transfer was authorised by deNong in consultation with myself and other professionals," Smeer pipes up.

It's weird seeing him speak up like that, managing to grab control like that. For a man who, moments ago had his head thrown back while he was receiving a blowjob, he's awfully composed, even managing to have zipped himself up and look reasonably  _tidy_.

"This is neither the time nor the place for this," Parke growls threateningly, and without any suggestion that he's about to do so, he radios for Venn and Waverley. "One more word, Engarde, and you're in isolation for the day."

Defiant and red-faced as Waverley and Venn arrive at the entrance, with his hair flipped over one eye and the other glaring nastily at a serene and smiling Smeer, he spits in the direction of his psychiatrist. "Cunt."

I'm not surprised that he spends the remainder of the day in isolation, but I'm surprised that it takes only two workers to effectively restrain him.

Smeer watches as though he's looking at a puppet show with his children.

 

 

 

I don't know what to do. I feel useless once again, hanging, dangling, not sure where I'm meant to be. Parke gives Smeer a look of warning, and finally breaks the uncomfortable silence.

"I suppose seeing those two off to isolation means the rumour mill is halted for a while," he utters quietly. 

And I just feel a surge of guilt. I should have known that this was going to happen; Wellington had  _warned_  me. And for a moment, looking at Smeer's calm face, wondering if the calm masks dozens of anxieties, I actually find myself feeling sorry for him.

"I'll be in my office," I say to no one in particular. 

Parke nods. "Good," he says. "I want to talk to you later on."

I nod succinctly. Under normal circumstances, Parke's words would have bothered me, but perhaps these aren't normal circumstances now and perhaps I deserve them. I'm the guilty man who can get respite now that I've been caught.

I look around my office when I step in, wondering if this will be one of the last times I'm in here. I'm losing it, I'm failing, I'm missing the most important part of my job; reporting to management about security concerns. I knew about the attempt at seducing Smeer, and I knew about the mysteriously absent shiv. Or... was that a setup? Was Justice parrotting something which he'd been told to say by Gavin? Was the situation with Wellington and Smeer a setup-- were they in cahoots-- and if so, why the hell would Wellington collude with Engarde like that anyway?

I've got the kind of headache which is making me feel dizzy and nauseous-- it could be a migraine but is probably better accounted for due to lack of caffeine and too many hours here. I sit down at my desk, head in my hands, and exhale deeply. Calm blue ocean. White powdery sand on the beaches of Tahiti. My daughter bringing home a white plaster cat daubed in criminally vibrant paint, back from a time when I could pretend that my marriage wasn't falling apart and that everything was in a perfect state of balance. 

The phone rings. 

The beeps which precede the voice indicate that it's from outside the prison, and I'm surprised. There's a silence: we sometimes get outside phonecalls, ex-inmates ringing up to explain that they have no idea what to do now that they're out-- over the history of the prison, we've even had a few ask to return. There's instituitionalisation for you. 

The silence I receive suggests something more dangerous and foreboding; we've had bomb threats, too, and it'd be just my luck that after this morning's drama, I'd be the unlucky bastard getting one. Which is odd; usually the bomb threats go through to the front desk, but a misplaced number dialled could land the call anywhere else in the prison.

It's Lauryn, and she sounds sheepish initially.

"Hi." 

"Hi Lauryn." 

"I didn't want to ring after..." And there hangs the awkward, the thing we cannot talk about, the void between us, which seems ironic given the physical closeness which caused all this.

"It's okay," I try to reassure her. "We had to talk sometime."

"I didn't really want to be the one to call," she admits quietly. "But I kind of have to."

I don't know what she's talking about. 

"Have you been watching the trial?"

I laugh. I can't help it. "That'd be a no. I've been watching..." God. I want to tell her what I  _have_  seen, but I can't. "...Bizarre snippets of prison life," I tell her instead. "It's been a busy morning."

"I guess you know what's going on with Gavin then?"

"Yeah. Within my capacity to."

"I'm surprised they haven't called you as a witness yet." 

I raise my eyebrows. "I'm not his psych any more."

"Oh." She's apologetic. "I forgot."

 

"It's all right," I tell her, perhaps with a hint of bitterness in my voice. "Sometimes even I don't know who the hell my clients are." And then there's another silence and the longing to ask another question. "How does Gavin look?"

"It's funny," she says. "I've never actually seen him before. So much of my work relates to him in some way or another, but all I've seen of him is photographs, all I have to know of him is what other people have said." She sighs. "I can understand the allure, though, I guess... he looks so  _polished_  up there. Like he's just stepped out of bed, had a shower and his morning coffee and decided to stroll on by the courthouse just to see what's happening."

Typical.

"I didn't know they let them wear suits."

Apparently if they arrived in clothing suitable for a court appearance, they're allowed to wear it on court appearances. Gavin probably appreciates the ability to suit up.

"They are."

There's another silence between us and I can't help but ask her-- "What have I missed?"

"They still haven't found the atroquinine," she tells me. "I actually wonder if this is some sort of game just to get him out to see daylight for a bit-- he certainly doesn't appear to be bothered by anything."

"Is he representing himself?"

"No. He's got some high-priced lawyer from interstate-- Byron Bay, I think his name is." She chuckles then. "I've never heard of him."

"I suppose he feels that the legal profession here is already influenced by his behaviour."

"Not to mention that he brought down Wright-- that guy was practically a hero to them."

I can't help but agree. "So are they going the Jurist System?"

"Yep. There are six utterly bewildered looking people somewhere behind a screen in another room wanting to know what the hell's going on, too, I imagine."

"I bet Gavin's pissed about that."

She chuckles. "I don't get you," she says. "Even though you've seen him at his worst, heard the most horrible confessions from him; you still have some level of empathy towards him."

Don't go reminding me. I'd rather not think about that.

"Have you been called in for anything?" I ask her.

"I might be," she says. "I'm just on standby right now for Klavier: all this is probably going to hit him hard." 

"Yeah," I agree. 

"You what it was  _about_ , don't you?"

"Nope." And thinking about it then, I realise how little I actually knew Kristoph Gavin, and how that chance has fallen away from me now and into someone else's hands. I wonder if he's told Smeer anything about it.

"He did the same thing he tried years ago with the artist, only with Wright. Poisoned  _something_  in the apartment which Wright would likely use at some point if he were to leave--"

"What the hell would that be?"

"He won't say. Right now he's only stating that this is all hearsay and that his former assistant is trying to stir up drama--"

"But he was the  _one_  who  _told_  Justice what had happened, wasn't he?"

"Yeah." She sighs. "It makes sense in a twisted sort of way, and they're just hoping he's going to crack and come clean at the end."

"I suppose they'll need some hard evidence before he does that, though."

"Precisely." She sighs again. "I wouldn't have put it past him... from what I've heard-- this is a man who shows no remorse about anything, no love for anyone, no--"

And then I'm defending him again. "He's not completely devoid of the ability to love," I tell her quietly. "He's just..."

"I don't know," she says. "I don't want to know. You haven't seen him from the same angle as I have." She's speaking with gritted teeth, I can tell. "I've seen the aftermath of his inability to exercise love or conscience towards most of humanity."

"He's--"

There's a knock on my door, Parke's knock.

"That was for me," I tell her quickly. "I have to go-- but thanks for ringing."

She goes quiet as I hear the key in the door, turning and clicking open. "No problem." Her voice is distant and quiet, testament to all the other things we haven't discussed.

 

 

"Business or personal?" Parke asks as I return the phone to its cradle.

"A bit of both."

He doesn't look impressed, but manages to look sympathetic. "I just hope you weren't dialling international."

"I wasn't." 

He smiles ever-so-slightly. "I think we can live with that." Watching him sit down, I start thinking about the unsigned, unread contract I put through the shredder, and about how maybe I'm getting on-the-job training with staff counselling when I have Parke show up at my office like this. 

It's something to go on the resume, I guess.

"I swear," he mutters, "Soon as this shit's sorted out with Smeer-- christ, what a fucking  _idiot_ \--" His hand meets my desk angrily-- "I'm taking my annual leave. Because-- fuck this. I've had enough."

I nod sympathetically but don't say anything.

"Even if deNong's lackeys wind up running this place like he wants them to-- apparently Waverley's next senior to me and gets to fill in in my absence."

"That's... interesting." It's the closest to a diplomatic response that I can manage-- Waverley's been here for  _years_ , and for all of them, he's seemed content to be doing what he does, with no aspirations towards management. And yet now something's changed, or he believes in himself or wants a change. Or something. To me, change in a certain direction like that seems suspicious. 

"Yeah. I kinda think the same thing. I wonder how  _Waverley_  would have responded to seeing an episode like that this morning." 

I decide to change the subject lest I open my mouth about Waverley. In case this is just some sort of test from Parke, even though I think I might be able to trust him. "How  _is_  Smeer, anyway?"

"A fucking idiot," Parke says simply, but I can see the way he's twitching, barely containing a rant. "I mean,  _shit_ , they teach you that shit in shrink school, right:  _you don't fuck clients_."

"Maybe he's one of those people who doesn't believe that oral sex is sex?" I ask.

He smiles for half a second and then his face drops. "Under any other circumstances, I'd have laughed at that," he tells me. "Now I'm stuck with an administrative nightmare, we're down a shrink, and I've got the union on my ass about him. Smeer's claiming that he didn't know that's what Wellington was trying to do, that the guy just was serially clumsy and would drop things and offer to pick them up off the floor."

"And somehow that turned into a blowjob? Isn't that like someone just falling on a shiv?"

"Precisely." Parke grunts. "I don't buy it for a second, and if it were up to me, that'd be grounds for dismissal--"

"It  _isn't_?" I'm aghast.

"Nope." The grave tone in Parke's voice suggests he's on the same page as me. "I know word's going to travel but it's all speculation at this stage because no one actually  _saw_  Smeer's dick in Wellington's mouth-- and the union have told me that if I allow unsubstantiated rumours to fester, then I could be encouraging workplace harassment and bullying."

He's gone pale, and I'm worried for him. "Take the time off," I tell him. "Just... take it, Mil."

He shrugs. "Nah," he says. "At this stage, Smeer's taking"-- he makes the gesture for inverted commas with his fingers quickly-- "'stress leave,' we've got the two inmates who saw what happened in isolation. Situation contained."

He sighs, his huge shoulders rising and falling. "It's just hoping those clowns on the floor can keep their mouths shut-- Venn should be okay, she looked disgusted rather than amused-- Waverley'll keep quiet since he likes Wellington-- Stone and Field-- god knows-- Hamm's the one I'm worried about. That guy's like a fucking satellite dish."

I can't help but smile, despite the seriousness of the situation.

"Why should we have to protect Smeer?" I ask. "If anyone else had done this--"

"Yeah, you're remembering Engarde and Wood, aren't you?" His hand hits his forehead and he cracks a smile. "I still have the odd nightmare about that one-- I  _saw it_." He chuckles. "I can see where Engarde gets his nickname from." He stops himself-- "I shouldn't say that, but... yeah."

"So why can't Smeer get dismissed?"

"Because he's saying it didn't happen, even though we all know it did, and because deNong would sooner ditch the entire floor staff and management and have Wellington and Engarde  _whacked_  than lose his brother's darling godson from the team."

  
He's right, and he's stated it explicitly for the first time. 

"How  _is_  Engarde?" I ask.

"What do you mean? He's in isolation, and he's on infrequent obs."

"Infrequent?"

"We don't have the staff for much more and we know what he's like when he goes off. He'll calm down."

"I mean in regards to his medication."

Parke pauses and looks at me witheringly, unimpressed. "You don't think his whining about that was all about the  _meds_ , do you?" he asks. "Because to me, that whole mess screamed  _set up_. Now I'm wondering why Wellington and Engarde would be in with one another and why they'd do something like this, but they're both manipulative little fuckers who'll do anything for kicks-- I don't think this had  _shit_  to do with meds. And Engarde's heightened anyway because he doesn't have Gavin to protect him-- he was practically  _begging_  to be thrown in iso this morning. He's scared shitless."

He grimaces, however, and his voice slows. "Though I'm dubious about what Smeer's doing," he says quietly. "He's got nearly everyone on something-- meds are taking forever to do in the mornings."

"If Engarde's been moved onto new antidepressants, it could explain a change in demeanour, the agitation and so forth."

"You serious?" He raises an eyebrow. "Engarde's  _always_  agitated."

"He was doing well when--"

"Oh, don't get onto that," Parke says. "I've had formal-looking letters about the inhumanity of them not being allowed to share a cell." He rolls his eyes. "Engarde's brushing up on his law skills, from the looks of it." He snorts. "Last thing I need to worry about-- but I kind of need  _you_  to do some extra stuff-- since Smeer's gone home, I have two men on obs who need to be reviewed." 

"It appears that I'm not treating either of them," I tell him tartly.

" _Look._ " He's exasperated and pissed off, and about two seconds from letting fly with a barrage of verbal abuse. "I realise deNong's screwed you around, but right now I'm just wanting things to, you know, not get worse in the time being. I'm trying to be good about this-- and don't worry-- I'll be speaking with deNong about Smeer--"

"When he comes back from stress leave, right?"

Parke gives me a crooked smile. "Yeah," he says. Once again, we're on the same page.

 

 

 

I grab a quick coffee in the staffroom before heading down to the isolation cells.

"Did you see it?" Denham is sitting at the table, eyes glued to the television. A bored-looking newsreader is talking about fires somewhere else in the world, there's a flicker of footage-- flames as thick as expensive cotton towels are shown on screen for a couple of fleeting seconds, and my heart stops. I never heard where in the world it  _was_ , and I'm hit with memories of the storage facility fire.

 _Another one?_

"I think Wright's destroyed the evidence," Lily says, tired. "I've got to admit, I'm getting tired of this shit-- the prosecution's got me on standby as a witness for tomorrow, too. What do I say? The man's a fucking psychopath."

Three guesses as to who they're talking about. It's not about the fire, it's the story which preceded the fire. The one I just missed.

I clear my throat. "If we're discussing Gavin, that remains to be seen."

"Bullshit." Denham's mouth drops open and he watches me as I'm filling my cup. "He left poison on something in Wright's apartment in the hope that he'd use it and  _die_. That's pretty twisted."

"So it would have been better to kill Wright upfront?"

Lily sighs. "I guess it would have been," she says. "Much more straightforward, anyway."

"Yeah, what's that saying?" Denham asks. "Real friends stab you in the face?"

Lily's nose wrinkles. "Real friends don't stab you  _anywhere_."

The absurd accuracy of the comment leaves us silent for a moment.

  
"Did they find the item the poison was allegedly left in?" I ask them, sipping my coffee, watching the screen just in case something else gets mentioned. It won't. The story is over. But I look, in hope of enlightening information.

"Not yet. The judge has granted the prosecutors permission to go through Wright's apartment with the forensics team this afternoon."

"And I reckon Wright's thrown it out." Lily shrugs. "They won't get him, he'll sit there smiling like a maniac, we get him back, show's over."

"So what was the point of this again?" Denham looks confused.

"Hell if I know." Lily glances in my direction. "Ask the good doctor here."

With a mouthful of hot coffee, I can merely shrug. Even if I didn't have a mouthful of coffee, I'd have shrugged all the same. How the hell am I supposed to know? I'm irritated. It's not like Gavin  _told me_  about it.

The door opens and we're interrupted; Ruth Venn walks in, looking unusually flustered. 

"Hey." Lily gives her a wave from the table. I don't know what the relationship between the two of them is like, but I suspect some sort of sisterhood bonding in the works. Women don't seem to last long here, and Lily's a rare exception. And she's probably got enough empathy in her to be able to put herself, somewhat, in Venn's shoes.

"I was looking for you, actually," Ruth tells me. Her face is hard, but beneath the coldness there's barely concealed panic in the rush of her voice. A dark wrinkle of eye makeup hangs under her eye; she's stressed and has been sweating. "Parke told me to try here in case you were on a break."

"I'm not, but I'll go," I tell her. "What needs doing?"

"The two in iso-- we want to drop Wellington down to intermittent obs and Engarde..." She frowns. "I heard Dr. Smeer managed to calm him down with something a few weeks ago. Maybe he needs a shot of that or something." She shrugs.

I take one last gulp of coffee and nod, rushing out the door.


	20. The Will to Live

No one's doing observations on Engarde, or at least, that's what I think when I see no one standing in front of the second isolation cell. Or he's been released early, suggetsing he's calmed down before Wellington: _strange_. I'm momentarily confused; Wellington is in the first cell, sitting comfortably in the corner, looking bored but otherwise okay. I give him a nod, he sticks his middle finger up at me and licks it, a threatening sparkle in his eyes, and I look around for staff. When I see Hamm, I wave to him and he comes over.

"Where's Engarde?"

"Still in solitary, I assume."

"Solitary?" This has more than piqued my curiousity; I'm  _worried_. There was no need for Engarde to be moved to solitary: he's less likely to speak about the morning's events than Wellington, and he didn't really put up much of a fight earlier. "Who authorised that?"

 

Hamm looks at me and shrugs, and then looks at Wellington's cell. "I dunno," he says, "But I'm doing obs on the guy as well. Checked him five minutes ago and told Venn to have a chat to you."

I walk quickly to the solitary section. The sense of panic coursing through me doesn't leave.

 

 

* * *

The new solitary cells still smell of the paint they were refurbished with. It's a sticky, chemical, astringent sort of smell. The walls are double the regular thickness, supposedly rendered soundproof, and plastic painted in an ugly putty shade. The floor is polished concrete, with a drain set into the side where the floor slopes, and a perspex window allows me to peer in and see Matt Engarde. 

The soundproofing, I can tell already, is a failure. Because I hear Engarde's screams before I see him; he's pacing backwards and forwards wildly, his yells garbled obscenities mingled with " _I want my fucking meds_."

"Mr. Engarde?"

He sees me at the window and races over towards me. My hand covers my mouth in shock; there's a tear running down the sleeve of his prison overalls, exposing paler-than-usual skin marred with the telltale stripes of scars, and the side of his face usually covered by the sideswept fringe is covered in blood. Bruises are blooming on the rest of his face, red and purpling, and his eyes are bloodshot and frantic.

"What?"

I remove my hand, and my voice comes out like a breath of horror. "What happened to you?"

He kicks the door. "I want my fucking  _meds_ ," he screams with the pain of a deprived addict. "I'm gonna lose it here-- I'm gonna fucking kill myself--"

His face is wild and barely recognisable. 

"I can sort something out--"

" _Do it. NOW!_ "

He starts pacing frantically. "And I'm gonna kill the corrupt cunts that put me in here--" His fist hits the window and I jump back slightly-- "It's not fair!"

He's right; it isn't fair. And something wrenches at me then; he's speaking with the same broken desperation which I'd heard in Redd White's voice the last time I saw him. 

"What happened to you?" I ask again.

"I'll fucking smash myself into the floor until I knock myself out," he says, a crack in his voice. "I need my fucking meds."

I run. I run back down the corridor, onto the floor and up the stairs, until I come across Waverley, who is sitting in the central office, idly watching TV screens.

"What's going on with Engarde?" I snap at him.

"I dunno."

"He's in solitary and he's losing it."

"I know," Waverley says with a shrug. "I moved him there because he was screaming like a toddler in a supermarket and I figured he'd unsettle everyone else." He doesn't look at all bothered by what he's saying. "He'll calm down eventually."

"He's suicidal," I remind him. I can feel my voice rising, and the smug, unperturbed expression on Waverley's face is only making me tingle with fury. "He has a history of self harm and suicidal ideation and at the moment, he's covered in blood and talking about knocking himself unconscious."

"Hamm checked on him five minutes ago."

"I saw him five  _seconds_  ago and he needs to be on constant observation. And he needs his meds."

Waverley raises an eyebrow. "I told him he'd get his medication when he calmed the fuck down and stopped threatening me."

"He needs something  _now_."

Another raised eyebrow, and Waverley stands up, stretching lazily. " _You_  can deal with that, can't you?" he asks.

"I don't have his case file any more. I wouldn't know what he's on."

"Bomb him out with that shit you used last time," he says carelessly. "Get him off to sleep and he won't need to be on constants, either."

My eyes widen. "I'm not here to medicate people to make your job easier," I remind him, my hands clenching into fists. _And it wasn't_ me _who bombed him out._  

Waverley glances down at them, and walks towards the door. "I don't really have the staff to do this," he says, and stops as he notices the glare on my face-- "You get his meds sorted and I'll go watch him, hey?"

I feel ill. 

"He's just being melodramatic," he continues. "It's just him carrying on like a pork chop because of the Wellington thing this morning and because his boyfriend's off getting done for attempted murder. He _wants_ to be in there." He's talking down to me like I'm a five year old with no clue. The urge to hit him hasn't subsided, I realise, as we head down to solitary together. I'm disgusted with myself. But I can handle that later.

 

 

I ring Parke when I'm back in my office searching through files, looking for any information there might be on Engarde. 

"Can this wait?" he asks gruffly. "I've just had deNong on the phone telling me to  _make this disappear_."

I don't know what to say because it  _can't_  wait.

"Is Waverley running the floor right now?"

Parke sighs. "Look, deNong's put him second in charge and I'm trying to sort out this scandal bullshit. I'm not pleased about it either, but I don't have the staff--"

"Engarde was moved to solitary and isn't on constant obs. And he's losing it in there-- and I have no idea what Smeer's had him on and--"

I can hear a few taps from Parke's end of the line. "I can tell you that one," he says, from my guess looking up the information on the computer in front of him. "Point 75 of Altravin in the morning and--"

"Good. That one's just an antidepressant." Not that I think an antidepressant is going to fix the mess Engarde's in right now, but at least it's something. And at least I'm not going to be following through with Smeer's drug-'em-into-submission policy. 

"He has something called Redactyl in the evening and--"

"We'll worry about that later." My voice is grim. Engarde doesn't need to be on the stuff, but I'm not getting into a debate with Parke-- or Smeer-- about that at the moment.

"What do you need from me?" He's stressed and strained. Evidently, he wants  _this_  to disappear as well.

"Authorisation-- can you please organise for Engarde's medication to come down to solitary, and some sort of guarantee that he'll be placed on constant obs?"

"I'll bring in more staff," he says. "Until then, Waverley can stay on it and Hamm can man the office."

 

 

* * *

Waverley glares at me as I approach Engarde's cell. 

"I'm sick of this sharing and caring bullshit," he snarls as Engarde throws himself at the door violently, staggering back, crazed and furious. "Drug 'em and slug 'em, I say." He sniffs. "It's not like he can kill himself in there anyway. Didn't we just spend a few mill getting this place suicide proofed?"

"Did you  _search him_?" I snap back. I've got a plastic cup in one hand with a mouthful of water in it and some pills in the other hand. "If Wellington has a shiv on him--"

"Wellington was wanded," Waverley reminds me. "Came up clean."

"Engarde," I offer in an undertone, still unconvinced that Wellington is as clean as Waverley says, especially after Justice's comments, "Is  _shifty_. And if White can stab Gant in the neck with a pencil, Engarde can probably self harm with something even more benign." I turn to the window. 

"Mr. Engarde?"

"What?" He flies at the window again, smashing into it like a bird confused by an especially clean window. Staggering back again, clutching at his shoulder, he looks at me, wild-eyed. "I'm gonna kill that fucking cunt--"

"I've got your medication."

He pauses, staring at me in disbelief, silent and still.

"You do?" he asks.

" _Yes_." 

Engarde paces back, waiting, and I turn to Waverley. "Can you let me in there, please?" 

"Make him go away," Engarde says. "I don't want him around-- I need to talk to you, doc."

"Sorry," Waverley says with a sneer in his voice. "You're on constants, you dumb prick."

I can see the rage coursing through Engarde as his fists clench and the muscles in his arms tighten. But to his credit, he controls himself enough to remain standing where he is as the door opens. I slip in, handing out the two cups. 

The cell stinks. In such a small, enclosed area with little airflow, it doesn't smell like paint any more, it's sweat and semen and blood and piss. I wonder how many people have used it before Engarde was placed in here, how long it took for the smell of disinfectant to be replaced with his smell. I try to ignore it and wait for him to accept his medication. I'm glad I'm wearing gloves.

He nods, and grabs the cups out of my hand, tossing the pills down his throat, shaking, the blood on his grazed face still glistening and rosy. 

"What happened to you?" I ask quietly.

 

 

"Self-injury," he says dismissively. His eyes are on Waverley as he speaks to me. 

"You realise that's why you're on constant observation, don't you?"

He nods, and I look at his injured face. "Here." Reaching into my pocket, I remove a couple of alcohol swabs which I'd grabbed from my office as I'd sorted out his medication. "Clean yourself up." 

He looks at them and my gloved hands. "Yanno, I've never seen you wear gloves before," he says cautiously.

"Standard part of the job when you're dealing with bodily fluids." I give him a weak smile as he tears into one of the packets and dabs tentatively at his face. I see him wince uncomfortably as the towelette touches his skin. 

"I don't have anything, you know," he says. There's a wry, lopsided grin on his face, and his voice is barely a whisper. "Those cunts out there think I'm riddled with every STD that's shown up in this shithole, but that's just ... _smart_." He chuckles to himself, ignoring the water I've offered him, opening his mouth to show me he's ingested his pills. 

The moment he sees that, Waverley knocks on the door, unimpressed. 

"When can I see you again?" Engarde asks me.

"I'm afraid you're seeing Dr. Smeer now--"

"I don't want to."

I sigh, feeling the pull of the weight of something I can't shift on my own, dragging me down into giving him answers I don't want to.

"You've been assigned--"

He flinches back. "That's bullshit!" he yells, stomping backwards. "Wellington got reassigned to that prick coz he asked-- I'm asking to get assigned back to you." 

Waverley bangs on the door again, and Engarde glares up at him, one dangerous eye sending him a look which can only read  _I'm going to kill you, cunt_.

"Enough of the socialisation bullshit, Engarde," Waverley growls. "You want that shit, you behave yourself in here so you can go back to the unit and get it."

"Fuck you." 

I step out of the cell as Waverley slams the door shut.

"Don't let him fool you," he says as he turns the key, stepping aside to face me. "He's malingering, the manipulative fuck. He's a fucking cockroach-- nothing'll kill him."

I don't dignify the comment with a reply, and I rush away from solitary as quickly as possible. 

I can only hope for Engarde's sake that he calms down and gets reassessed. He doesn't belong in here.

 

 

 

There's a weird sort of vibe in the air as Parke's staff meeting is called; it's like we can all sense something is going on, there's a  _buzz_  in the staffroom, a rumbling of something we can't talk about openly, and Parke stares from one face to the next, waiting for silence without saying anything.

His tiredness is obvious. He looks exhausted; the wrinkles on his forehead seem more pronounced, there are dark half-circles under his eyes, and his hair seems messier, lighter, and more dishevelled. 

The silence which follows the glare suggested that there's at least sympathy for Parke, even from the workers who have no reason to feel especially sorry for him: they're feeling his exhaustion, they're empathising with a fellow human being rather than kissing up to the boss.

"We have a lot to discuss," he says wearily. "Right now I've got one of the nursing staff watching Engarde so we could all be here--"

"What the  _fuck_  are you doing getting the nurses involved?" Waverley snarls. His fist hits the laminate surface of the tabletop, and several cups of coffee shudder, threatening to overflow. None of them do, surprisingly, and even more surprisingly, Waverley doesn't seem to notice. 

The attention has gone from Parke's worrying fatigue to Waverley's rage. "I've been watching that manipulative little shit for six hours, and he's just trying to get drugs out of people," he snaps. "He shut the hell up as soon as  _he_  turned up, anyway." He's screaming now. Somewhere towards the back of the room, there's a faint, nervous giggle. It's not amusement, it's uncertainty. 

"He's just putting this on so when Gavin gets back, they get back to playing butt-buddies in the same cell and plotting Christ knows what against whoever's on their hitlist this week."

"Waverley--" I can tell from Parke's voice that he isn't really looking for a fight, he just wants silence so he can continue.

"Look," he says, his face reddening-- "I'm sick of this shit, Mil. I've seen you running this place for ages now and you just turn a blind eye to those fuckers. Anyone would think  _you're_  fucking them."

Lily laughs. Again, it's a nervous laugh, and Parke clears his throat. "If I'm allowed to continue," he says testily--

"I just know that when I'm running the unit, things will be happening differently around here," Waverley continues.

"And when you're  _doing_  that, it's your call," Parke says coldly, teeth gritted. "Until  _then_ , you can allow me to finish."

There's a cold, absolute sort of silence, and awestruck, horrified looks from a number of the staff. Denham, normally laidback and content, looks as though someone's made him eat a lemon, and he's trying to disguise the fact. Lily's mouth is hanging open in disbelief. Hamm's normally cheerful grin is a scared-looking line. The Field brothers are standing next to one another, nervous, as though they've got the sense that a duress alarm is about to go off somewhere.

Waverley grunts, and before he says anything else, Parke continues. 

"Dr. Smeer has taken some time off, indefinitely," he says. "By now, a number of your are probably aware of the rumours surrounding his conduct this morning, involving one of his sessions being interrupted and the subsequent isolation of both Matt Engarde and Richard Wellington."

Murmurs go through the room, I hear a voice somewhere mention Colin Wood again, and Parke cuts them off. "If I hear so much as a  _hint_  of this being discussed on the floor, I'll have you in front of a panel explaining why you deserve to keep your job when you're clearly violating workplace harassment laws and--"

"How is that harassment?" Lily looks incredulous.

"Speculating about the misconduct of staff falls under harassment and bullying," Parke snaps at her. "And if you're planning on doing that, you can find yourself another workplace which will tolerate that." 

Lily falls silent, and I glance at her; she looks almost hurt, like she's been slapped across the face. 

"Is this clear?" Parke's voice is tired and furious. "I want this to be a  _harmonious_  workplace for  _everyone_."

 

No one brings up Colin Wood, and for the time being, I'm glad. Despite his anger, I feel sorry for Parke; he sounds like a desperate man clinging to straws. 

  
"And following the Variety Show and another appearance from our  _esteemed_  Daniel deNong"-- the loathing and rage in his voice is as clear as daylight-- "I'm going to be taking some much needed holiday leave."

Again, a short murmur. 

"Glenn Waverley will be acting supervisor, so I'm requesting that you all get acquainted with his way of doing things," he continues. 

Waverley is glaring at him, stony-faced and angry. In a way, he's been put forth as the new head honcho, but Parke has managed to hold his own and express his displeasure at the idea. 

"Any questions?"

No one dares move. Then, a raised hand towards the back gets called on.

"Tona?"

"Are we getting Kristoph Gavin back here?" he asks.

" _Yes_." Parke doesn't seem pleased about that either. "He's doing life regardless, so if he's found guilty, that's just another token sentence."

"Where's he going?"

"Back to his old cell."

"So he can corrupt Moreau or some other unlucky bastard." It's Hamm who snaps, surprisingly, and everyone stares at him.

"I saw Matt Engarde today," he says. "The man's a fucking wreck. And he wasn't this bad since Gavin got under his skin-- so what happens next-- Gavin comes back and we give him a new toy to play with?"

There's more murmuring.

"I say we just let Gavin and Engarde shack up again," Denham says. "They just do their thing, they're happy, they keep everyone else out of it. That's all that they want at this stage."

"What about Gant and Wellington?" someone pipes up.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

All of a sudden, everyone is talking again, and it's a furious, rumbling wave of white noise.

"Perhaps we could let them work towards earning the privilege of sharing a cell," Lily suggests. "Gavin's shown he can be motivated into behaving himself with simple rewards, perhaps this--"

"Engarde is not some sort of candy bar or privilege," Caster growls. "I've been watching the news-- Gavin is  _sick_ \-- he belongs--"

" _Look_." I've never known Parke to  _yell_. Not like that. Not in a way that chills everyone and makes them pause, as though we've just been hit with the white hot glow of a flashbulb. "Tomorrow the trial ends," he says. "Tomorrow, hopefully, we get Engarde and Wellington back on the unit, and then Saturday is the Smile Time Variety Show."

In amongst the gossip and the panic and the drama, it seems that we've all forgotten that.

"And then after that, I get to fuck off out of here and no one has to worry about me screaming like a mad thing because Waverley's running the place with some new improved strategies."

It seems so final, and I have the sickening feeling that I hadn't realised how close we were to the variety show, to Parke disappearing, and to a whole new lot of changes. Everything is unstable. Everything is chaos. I wonder if Parke will actually return to his post, and I'm scared at the thought that he may not.

"I know we're all tired," Parke continues softly. "And I know we all need things to calm down-- let's just get the variety show over and see where we go from there." He smiles, then, brave and somehow triumphant, as though realising that the sun is setting on his reign.

  
Somewhere in the distance a phone rings, and the meeting is unofficially over and we're leaving the room, talking madly to one another, or still shocked into silence. Coffee cups are left in the sink and the unit is returned from lockdown for the evening. The rest of my day is but a blur.

 

 

"I need this break." Parke sucks in on his cigarette, twitching, an arm clinging around himself, as though he's trying to offer consolation.

I want to do something for him, but I can't. He's right. He needs his time off. He's worked in the role for longer than most of the managers last, he clocks on more hours than I do, I've never seen him take leave, and he's understandably exhausted.

"I can't believe we seem to have killed the Smeer bullshit already," he says, his voice and eyes cynical. "I don't believe it, personally. Nothing goes down this easy." He rubs his temple, thoughtful and still stressed. 

And I can feel my heart thudding, sweat rising to my skin, a lump in my throat replacing the truth I wish I'd told him when I first knew about the bet.

"Wellington says he was set up," he says finally. "That it was all Engarde's doing."

"Which is funny when you consider his role in it." I open my packet of cigarettes, delicately taking one between my fingerstips, thinking about smoking it--  _do I need this cigarette?_  I'll smoke it. I will because I've become an addict. 

"It wasn't Engarde under Smeer's desk." Engarde might have planted the seeds of a bad idea, but no one made Wellington harvest them.

"I know." Parke sighs. "I also get the feeling you're not fond of him."

 _"Engarde?"_  I want to ask. But I don't. He's right: I don't like Smeer, what he stands for and how he operates. I don't like the shuffle in power which has placed him where he is. 

"I don't trust him," I say finally with some consideration.  _And I suspect that you don't, either_.

It's strange, because up until now, I've seen Parke as a comrade, someone who understands where I'm coming from and why I'm concerned. Someone who shares my worries about the way things have changed lately. Someone who, beneath the gruff exterior and the occasional outburst, has the same sort of view towards his charges as I do.

But now, watching him stooped over and clutching himself, smoking his cigarette, leaned against the wall as though he's propping himself up, I just see a man who is growing older and tired. Is this how people burn out? I've seen people explode, I've seen them screw up, I've seen them have the good sense to get out before the job eats away at them, reducing them to a shell of what they were before they discovered the joys of working in the prison system. I haven't seen them slowly crumble like this, wearing out to a point of almost expiration in the way that Parke seems to be. It's an especially depressing kind of awful seeing this in  _Parke_ , whom I remembered from years ago, a brighter-eyed, darker-haired and far more naive-- but still sharp-- officer on the floor. 

"I just want things to run peacefully," he admits. "Much as I know that's impossible. I'm tired, doc." He smiles weakly, and I return the smile, finally placing the cigarette between my lips and lighting it. 

"Isn't that what we all want?" I'm skating on thin ice. And I wonder if Parke suspects my involvement, of me having inside knowledge, in the same sort of way as Lily had regarding the poisoning attempt. Parke's lasted in this job because he can read people. He's anything but stupid. 

But fatigue affects the best of us, and it's likely he suspects nothing.

"Look," he tells me. "I don't necessarily agree with some of his methods, but I'm glad we have another psych on board." He pauses, exhaling and looking at me. It's like he needs my approval. And I want to approve, to nod my head and agree with him; I don't want him to feel stressed and as though the issue of Smeer is something else he has to worry about, but I also don't want to go blindly and stupidly, and to pretend I'm not worried about Smeer, his placement and what he's doing.

 

I don't know what to say to him. I feel like he's jumped ship, that the concern and the fight's left him and too much agreeing with me will cause problems so he's moving towards the path of least resistance. And I feel abandoned, which annoys me, because I remember there being a time before this, before power bases consisted of inmates as well as staff, before my own caseloads invaded my personal life, and when everything was much simpler. 

He's looking at me as he inhales and exhales again, desperate for some sort of positive feedback which I don't, can't, offer. And his mouth tightens as I drop the cigarette I've decided I don't want any more to the ground and crush it out violently, twisting the ball of my foot into a little circle, killing it as though it's a particularly gruesome spider.

"It's not Smeer I don't trust," Parke says quietly. "It's our old friend deNong." deNong who used to work on the floor with everyone back in those halcyon days. deNong who got promoted and turned into something else. 

I raise an eyebrow at him. I want to point out that bitching about his superiors probably won't help him ascend the career ladder, and that he's being a prick if he expects me to listen to his griping about deNong while I'm meant to extol the virtues of Smeer. 

"I hate the politics of this place," I say vaguely with a false, non-committal, Kristoph Gavin smile. 

And I return to the unit before he can start trying to tell me anything else. Like him, I'm tired and I don't have time for this shit.

 

 

 

It feels like I'm watching what is about to become a landslide, I think to myself once I'm home. The days have been growing more and more stressful, but it's all buildup to the main event. Main  _events_ , I think, because it's not just a performance review or a meeting with a very important higher-up I'm worried about, or somoene being released in the same sort of state as they were when they arrived; it's the fact that Gavin's trial is coming to an end, it's the changes in structure around the place, it's the idea of Glenn Waverley having more power than he should. It's about Engarde falling to pieces and it's about the weight of my guilt when I think about what happened to Smeer; it's the uneasy consideration that Wellington might have a shiv on him even though logic suggests that he doesn't. And it's about the Smile Time Variety Show and the idea of Parke going on vacation and not returning. 

It's about taking all this anxiety home with me and not being able to just put it aside, I think gravely as I pour myself a drink, idly wondering what's running through Parke's head right now: for him it would be all this and unions and Smeer and faulty electrical wiring and who's going in and who's getting out and planning and staffing issues and how the hell the variety show is going to turn out and Big Important People turning up and feeling as though he's walking a tightrope while spinning plates. 

I don't envy his position, nor do I blame him for wanting holidays, and for just wanting, childish and naive as he's aware it is-- peace and order.

  
I flick on the television in an attempt to distract myself. The TV makes a strange little popping noise, as though it's not quite used to being used, yet another reminder that I don't really have the luxury of free time any more. 

In the middle of the nightly sports show which I'm not really paying attention to, there's a recap of the news events of the day. Local election. Megachurch in trouble with the IRS. Gavin's trial continuing.

My focus is pulled in then, as footage shows him walking into court, head held high and quick, deliberate, wide steps. He doesn't look nervous; he doesn't look  _anything_ , and barring the police transporters walking behind him and the way his hands are cuffed and behind his back, looks as though I imagine him to have looked when he was in his professional prime.

" _The trial of Kristoph Gavin enters its third day_ ," the newsreader states coldly, " _Gavin has been charged with attempted murder following an anonymous tip-off to police earlier this week..._ " 

Anonymous. There are two names which spring to mind; Lauryn's and Apollo Justice's. 

" _The intended victim this time was Gavin's former friend, previously disbarred defence attorney Phoenix Wright..._ "

Footage of an uncertain, nervous looking Wright with one hand fingering the knot of his magenta tie-- " _An elaborate plan to poison Mr. Wright was revealed earlier in the week although the source of the deadly poison, atroquinine, has yet to be found. The trial continues tomorrow..._ "

In the background, following Wright into court is a surly-faced Miles Edgeworth. He doesn't look pleased to be there, but surely his interest in the case, in legal issues-- and concern for his former partner-- leave him with no choice but to attend.

I tune out, paying attention to the footage, rather than the narrative; I wonder how it feels to be Kristoph Gavin, if he's sitting there waiting for the verdict and for the poison to turn up-- or if he's smirking under his calm facade, aware that there  _is no poison_. Footage shows Smeer entering the courtroom, and I'm confused; I'm unsure as to whether I'm irritated that it's  _him_  and not  _me_  providing testimony about Gavin, if I'm grateful because I don't have to. And then, I wonder, if somehow fate and Gavin conspired and made this all happen at the right time so that any testimony from his psychiatrist would be vague and meaningless. 

I'm not sure if I've been played or discarded or saved. Maybe it's a combination of all three.

 ****

 **  
**

"We have new policy," Parke tells the unlucky few of us who are starting early. "Since we haven't had anyone in solitary for awhile, it slipped my mind, but now we're kicking Engarde out today..." He sighs. "I'm glad I caught this before we did send him back out there--"

"He's on obs when he rejoins the population?"

"Yep," Parke says. "That's a given; he's a suicide risk again and Gavin coming back is probably going to mess him up a bit more." He passes a piece of paper around to Towne, Denham, Field, Tona and I. "I'm rearranging the rooms again," he starts to say-- 

"So him and Gavin get to be butt buddies again?" Tona asks--

"No-- Gavin's sharing with Moreau, who's out in a few weeks, and Engarde's going to be riled up after everything-- I think he needs some time to himself for awhile."

"So we give Gavin and Engarde some validity when they tell us they want to share a room." Denham sighs. 

"Not at all; I just can't work out where else to put either of them. The point about Gavin corrupting more malleable inmates is there, and by association, his enemies are Engarde's and vice-versa: between the two of them, they've amassed a lot of pissed off prisoners."

"That's just because Gant runs everything and he just needs to say the word and Gavin's dead."

"There's Crescend..." Field suggests.

Denham laughs. "You're shitting me, right?" he asks with a giggle. "That'd be like putting Wellington and Engarde in a cell together."

Field raises an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"If you've spent as long as I have listening to Crescend's act for the variety show, you'll know damn well that he can't stand Gavin, and by association, Engarde."

"What, if you play the song backwards, it says  _Gavin must die_?" Parke smirks.

"It's not even that subtle," Denham says. "And he's hoping Klavier shows up to hear the damn thing--"

"Oh,  _wonderful_." Parke's head collapses into his hands. "So now we have potential drama at the variety show?"

"The non-hammy kind," Field chips in with a smile.

" _Shit_." Parke's wide-eyed and irritated. "And you're telling me this  _now_  because--?"

"What's he gonna do? We've all seen variety show acts which allude to certain rivalries and issues-- you've heard Wocky Kitaki's rap, haven't you?"--

"No."-- 

"I wouldn't be surprised if  _that_  causes some off-stage drama, to be honest. You know how those gangbangers get when someone disses them publicly... We should be more worried about that than Crescend writing a pop song."

Parke nods. "We're getting off topic," he says. "The reason I wanted to talk to you is that I need whoever's on this morning and doing constants to take Engarde up to the clinic once he's out-- and I want him out early if possible so we can start the day before he gets antsy about Gavin coming back."

"Why the clin--"

"That's what I was getting to," he tells Tona. "New legislation came through last week-- it's part of the move to start changing things in the system. They pass a bunch of guidelines which become legislation-- stuff ensuring safety and welfare of the inmates-- and once it looks like no one can say they're not looked after, they come in with the heavy handed stuff. So they'll get something like that one Gavin and Engarde and anyone else who wants to waste the shrinks' time-- no offense, doc-- like, about ensuring mental health treatment-- and then they'll do something like increase the acceptable grounds for a cavity search or the amount of time someone can be left in isolation for." He shrugs. "Give a little, take a little."

I nod. I've seen it happen before. Not long after the death penalty was overturned, stricter guidelines came in and outdoor time was struck from the list of essential requirements for inmates. It's a strange, one-sided sort of negotiation.

"So Engarde has to see the doctor," Field says. "No problem." He pauses. "Why?"

"The rationale is to make sure that any injuries he might have incurred during his time alone can be documented and we can get a better idea of who might be a self-harmer or prone to suicide attempts." Parke eyes me carefully. "This one was pushed through, I suspect, because of the situation in solitary before the cells got fixed."

 

It's the most subtle way of talking about suicide, isn't it? White has become an elephant in the room we'd rather not acknowledge. At least, not by name, anyway.

"And since we know Engarde has such tendencies anyway--"

"He's  _already_  self-harmed in there," I point out, my eyes fixed on Waverley's. I'm furious, to be honest; Waverley's lack of attention was what facilitated the self-harm. Engarde, had Waverley kept an eye on him, would have likely screamed and sworn at  _him_  rather than running his face along the concrete floor and doing whatever else he was doing to himself.

Waverley snorts. "All seems like tokenistic sharing and caring bullshit to me. Fuck him-- he just does that shit for attention."

"Just like Redd White did, right?" Everyone stares at me, and it's only after I've said it that I realise I'm shaking. Waverley's looking at me as the others are, shocked that I've mentioned the unmentionable, and the tension is only broken when Parke softly clears his throat, a fist in front of his mouth. "Let's not go there," he murmurs quietly.

His voice raises again. "So-- yeah, everyone-- there should be a memo going out about this today, but Engarde needs a checkup with the nurse and if he's been self-harming, he might need some dressings or--" He stops. "What the fuck was he self-harming  _with_?" he asks. "Didn't he say Wellington had the shiv?"

"Maybe Wellington gave it to him?" Denham suggests.

"No way." Field chuckles. "They hate one another, and Wellington's quite adamant that Engarde is a dog who set him up to get him in trouble."

It's that point where I find myself wondering exactly what Wellington has said, and a mad consideration occurs to me: what if Engarde wasn't wanting to get  _Wellington_  into trouble? "Unless Wellington wanted him to kill himself, and he seems to given how pissed off he is-- when Wellington was wanded, there wasn't any shiv, was there? Seriously, if Wellington has had one to give him, he would have handed it over. Giftwrapped and with a love letter, I suspect." 

"Engarde's injuries seemed to be bruises and grazes," I tell him with a shrug. No evidence of a shiv being available to Matt Engarde. "Where there's a will, there's a way, I guess."

Parke nods. "I still think it's probably not one of the worst ideas they've brought in." He eyes Waverley. "And for the malingering ones, it gives them their attention before they get back into the swing of things on the floor, doesn't it?"

How diplomatic. I'm inclined to agree with him, and I can't help but childishly like the way Waverley's face is a reddish storm cloud of pent up rage. 

The siren for wakeup call sounds, and we stand to attention. Waverley and Denham head for the door, Waverley ready to assume position in the office, Denham ready for Engarde. It must be a pleasant feeling, getting to open the isolation and solitary doors. 

Parke stays behind and laboriously dries his plastic coffee mug in a way I've never seen before, waiting for everyone else to leave.

"I think I've figured out who our rat is," he says quietly once the staff room is empty. 

I look at him for a moment, awaiting elaboration, and we're interrupted by the morgue attendant and general go-for, Rick O'Mortis. Seeing him is always startling; we're not used to him, and his presence is almost like seeing a flock of ravens in a field; it's ominous and unusual and if I were superstitious, I'd be terrified when I randomly encounter him. 

He looks at us; he's in a rush, and he's probably perfectly unaware that he manages to stir this sort of reaction in laypeople of the prison. Or maybe just me.

"I was looking for ya, Parke," he says with an unimpressed face. "I need to you sign off on a mechanic's fee: I've had the guy on the phone for the past week because when I got the repairs done on the van, it didn't go through internal and it's missing your signature--"

"Oh, shit." Parke gives him an apologetic smile. "It's been hectic up here, Rick," he says with a wry grin. "You should pop up more often."

"Maybe you should come down and visit me, Parkie." He chuckles, and seeing the two have a rare moment to engage, I leave them be.

 

 

"I came to see you because I don't like the new guy." Julien Callander is fiddling with a scab on his left index finger, not looking at me.

Prison life is definitely taking its toll on him; his baby face has hardened somewhat, and his hair, neatly clipped when he arrived, is shaggy and unkempt. His teeth are still even and white as they were when I first met him, but there's a jerky twitch to the way he moves around. I've heard of long term prisoners getting released and still watching their backs literally when they're outside. Fight or flight responses are permanently engaged.

But he's safe in my office, and he's slightly mellow, there's no panic in his eyes. "Can I go back to seeing you again?" he asks me. 

"I'm afraid I can't do that," I offer in a non-committal, soothing voice. "Unfortunately there have been some reallocations--" But I want to know  _why_  Callander wants to be back on my list-- "but maybe we could talk about your readjustment to a new psychiatrist."

"I'm scared of him." He faces me, dead straight, eyes wide open in fear. He then looks away, returning to picking the scab on his hand-- "I might be scared of other things around here, but I'll openly admit to that one-- he wants me  _drugged_. He wants to make me..." He pauses again, looking embarrassed, his eyes not meeting mine any more.

"Remember what happened to Klavier Gavin?" he asks. "Gavin's brother, the pretty one, the rock star guy?" He's trying not to sound afraid, but he's taking deep breaths, desperate to calm himself. "With Gant and Tigre and Plan and me?" 

"Yes." I eye him, puzzled. That event was pushed aside and almost overshadowed by Redd White's death.

"Can I say something that will stay with you?" he asks timidly. "There's no investigation, I took the rap for it-- you know that, doctor."

I nod. I'm waiting for it.

"I didn't do it," he admits. Then quickly-- "I'm not saying who  _did_  do it, but it wasn't me. But--" I can see his face growing red. "What was I going to say-- since people around here knew about the meds I was on, that I couldn't get--  _things_  working-- I was... I dunno--"

 _Saving face_. In an environment as masculine and macho as this, where everything has been stripped from these men barring their physical bodies, identity is everything. Macho culture dominates, perception of power is as great as power itself. Having a lack of power instantly labels you as a victim, having a discernible weakness will as well. I think about how Wellington's used that carefully: his promiscuity should have him pegged for victimhood, but the fact that he's being utilised by Gant means he's found his protection since Gant runs the unit. Engarde had such power previously; now, he does not-- and being a known victim and an enemy to the Gant group has his place in the pecking order-- the peck _er_  order, I think crudely-- established. 

Gavin is an anomaly, uncharted territory; with book smarts and privilege behind him, as well as soft and untainted features, not to mention a past devoid of criminal connections, he  _should_  be a victim, but he's somehow bypassed the entire system. Crescend is another one, though his aggression and rage-- and adaptability to prison life appears to have spared him.

Callander-- and Moreau-- are classic victims. 

"I was repaid with sexual favours," he says glumly. "Not that they actually  _did_  anything for me." 

"Repaid for--?"

"For saying I raped Gavin's brother." 

Shit. I want to repeatedly smash my head into the desk in front of me.

"But it's a double-edged sword," he says. "I'm now on some other drug and I'm getting these..." He pauses. "I dunno how to explain it," he tells me. "About half an hour after meds, I feel like someone's punched me in the back of the head, and I get this...  _pain_  for the rest of the day. And fogginess."

"Have you talked to Dr. Smeer about that?"

"I don't want to," he says. "Which is why I'm talking to you-- I'm  _glad_  Smeer's not in-- I just want you to fix up my meds and--"

 

"I'm afraid I can't do that," I tell him. "You need to tell Dr. Smeer that you're having adverse side effects--"

  
"Look," Callander snaps, eyes angry, body twitching. "I  _can't_." 

"Can you tell me why you can't?" I hope the look on my face is conveying kindness and warmth, something he can sink into and relax in, like a hot bath at the end of a long week.

"Not really," he says. "And I  _swear_ \--" he's getting angrier-- "If you  _tell_  anyone this, I'll..." And he leans back in his seat and crosses his arms. "I won't tell you what I'll do, doctor." He smiles, a poor, desperate attempt at manipulation. He's like a five year old playing a gangster in a school play. It's almost laughable.

"Why can't you tell me?" I ask. I drop my voice, wondering if I'm going to regret the next thing I say. "What's so awful that you can't tell me--"

"You know how they do electroshock therapy on people when depression medication doesn't work?" he asks randomly. "And it fries people's brains so they can't think any more?"

"In the past, that therapy was a sometimes brutal and dangerous treatment for patients, but today's improvements--" I stop myself, wondering if Smeer has been advocating ECT and why Callander is talking about it. "We wouldn't do that to you, though," I tell him. "For one thing, you don't appear to have the sort of depression which would respond to that--"

He doesn't look relieved as I'm expecting him to. 

"They still castrate people, though, don't they?" he asks. He's nervous and terrified. "Look at me," he says. "I'm up for parole in a few years and everyone thinks those meds didn't work and now these ones are fucking with my head even more, so what is there left for me?" 

"Where did you hear that?" I ask.

"People talk," he says bluntly, offering nothing. " _Please_ \-- I don't want to fight with you-- I just want my old meds back."

I make a note on his case file that his medication needs reviewing, hoping that Smeer at least considers that. 

"One thing before I go," Callander tells me, and I look at him, curious.

"Yes?"

"How's Matt Engarde and when's he coming back?" 

I can't quite hide the look of curiousity on my face, and he blinks. "And Gavin, too?" 

"You're...  _friends_  with Gavin and Engarde?" I ask him suspiciously. Perhaps I shouldn't sound suspicious, it isn't nice to have a lack of faith in my clients. But I'm surprised.

"Look at it this way," he says with a shrug. "We've been messed around by the same people in here, and we're outcasts, aren't we? And everyone knows Engarde is a freak and that Gavin was  _doing things_  to his brother, so it's not like they can judge me, right?" There's such naivete in his voice that it's heartbreaking in a way. I try to realign the image I have of the man, Julien Callander, who abducted small children and had a stash of pornography on his hard drive, with the quivering, dismally naive person sitting in front of me.

"Unlike the others, these guys don't want me to do anything for them," he says. He smiles. "It's nice having sort of friends, isn't it?"

"Maybe you should just worry about looking after  _you_  for the time being," I tell him. "Are you still seeing Smeer on a regular basis?"

He nods. "My lawyer was telling me that I should be engaging in a treatment program looking at addressing my offending behaviour," he continues. "So with the medication and just... talking about stuff..." He trails off again, his chin quivering, making my stomach clench. It's horrible and sad seeing this; there's no other description.

Anna flashes into my mind for the moment, as do Callander's unnamed victims who need as much therapy as he does, kids whose lives have been drastically changed because of an unfortunate encounter they couldn't help. I hate the way my thoughts wander when I'm dealing with the diddlers, as they're known amongst the inmates.

"It's difficult," I start saying-- how the hell would  _I_  know?-- "But it's a good idea."

He stands up, still quivering. "Thanks, doctor," he says. Thankfully, I suppose, teetering towards discussing his offending behaviour has made him want to leave my office.

 

"Are you ready to return to the unit now?"

  
He nods, and I hit my radio, asking for him to be collected.

"Just say hi to Engarde for me," he says as Byrne arrives at my office and waits at the door.

 

 

* * *

I'm not expecting to see Waverley waiting outside my door when I'm about to step out to grab myself a coffee, but he's there, looking sheepish and weirdly stunned, as though he's got something he needs to get off his chest.

It's awkward, to say the least; he stands there, stalker-like, and sort of springs out at me, as though trying to make his presence appear coincidental.

"What's up, doc?" he asks, with a goofy cheerfulness which arouses my suspicion. He's  _Waverley_ , for fuck's sake. Cheerful isn't his natural state of being.

I don't dignify the greeting with a response. I do look at him, trying to read his face and work out what he wants. Waverley's usually kept his distance from me; our meetings have been confined to incidental run-ins in the staff room. 

"Have you got a minute?" he asks me, and I stop, waiting for the punchline.

"Yeah," I say. "Why?"

"I wanna talk about the situation with Dr. Smeer." Without asking, he pushes his key into my office door, and twists it open.

"I was actually just about to get myself a coffee," I tell him.

 

"I won't be long," he says. "I need to go sign off on some stupid paperwork about Engarde." He gives me a disgruntled look. "Parke's got me doing a heap of his paper pushing since I'll be stepping in for him next week."

He doesn't sound impressed, and I have the urge to remind him that he accepted the job, after all, and that he's got a big pair of shoes to fill. But now isn't the time to be condescending.

I give him a nod and he walks into my office. "I wanted to have a talk to you about Engarde," he says uneasily. "He seems to be-- what's that word you use-- escalating."

I can't disagree with him. "Engarde has been under a lot of pressure lately," I point out. "He's probably feeling uneasy and insecure about the fate of his friend--"

"Friend?" he blinks. "Funny definition you have of friendship, doc." 

I clear my throat, not wanting an argument. "And he's had concerns about his safety for a long time before that regarding the increasingly tension between himself and Wellington and--" 

"Look," he continues. "About this medical checkup shit." His arms are folded and he looks angry. "I don't like this. It's giving them a place and the time to make allegations, don't you think? And Engarde  _hates_  me because I get along with Gant, and he hates Gant because..."

I raise an eyebrow as Waverley, like a runaway train, stops abruptly. 

"I don't know why he hates Gant," he says gruffly. "My suspicion is because Gant's got some new friends who are easier to get on with than a psychotic has-been."

"Engarde is not psychotic," I point out calmly. "As you'd likely be aware, he was diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder."

"Guy's a fucken fruit loop," he says dismissively. "And all this crap with him hurting himself probably doesn't go down well with someone like Gant, either-- Gant's a straight-up guy, there's none of that bullshit with him."

"You like Gant, don't you?" I ask him quietly.

"No," he says quickly. "I don't like any of these scumfucks-- there are just some who are easier to get on with than others." He sighs. "I'll admit, when he first came in here, Gant was no different."

I raise an eyebrow. 

"He was just another one-- he was good because somehow he managed to wrestle control from everyone else: him and von Karma: they took on the dealers, they pulled the new kids into line quickly, they didn't stand for disrespect-- they were crims of the old school, they knew about res--"

"They were both high profile public officials and they had Redd White working with them, probably knowing all of the things they wished would remain secret," I point out. "Perhaps it wasn't so much that people respected them as feared them."

"Still," Waverley says with a shrug. "It worked, didn't it?" He sighs. "Gant's an interesting guy," he says. "Some part of him is still concerned about justice--"

 _Which is why he raped Matt Engarde, right?_  I'm tempted to spit back, but don't, practising a nice, serene smile, the more irritated I'm growing. 

"-- he tries to get along with everyone." He fingers his moustache. "I never understood why Gant and Gavin didn't hit it off, actually; both of them are intelligent, both have legal knowledge..." He sniffs. "I guess Gavin being a fag didn't make Gant want to bother with him." 

"He and Wellington seem to get on, though."

Waverley shrugs. "Maybe Wellington had a little crush?" he asks with an uneasy giggle. 

I'm tempted to ask him about his homophobia, and to ask if that's influenced his attitude towards Gavin, whom he's pointedly despised since he arrived.

 

"You know what it was about Gant?" he asks vaguely. "It was the way he changed after the botched execution. Just before he walked the green mile, he'd gotten distant and depressed; there was no cheery humour and everything just leeched out of him, like he knew he was going to die. And it was weird, because-- you know me, doc, I've worked here for years-- I've seen dozens of men meet their maker one way or another-- but with Gant, I actually thought to myself--  _Damn, I'm going to miss him_."

I'm not sure why he's needing to tell me this.

"This was before you came on board, you know; things were different back then. It wasn't as organised; the psych services were nothing like they are now; it was the psych team and ringing up outsiders they'd seen when they were in the community. And most of ours on the unit were overflow from death row; we needed psychs to assess them before they died, that was it."

None of this is surprising me.

"But Gant-- the night before he was due to go, decided to have a talk to me; we were walking back from somewhere; I was only new to the job and he just started telling me about his life, about what happened, about the prosecutor he worked with and her little sister and the mess that landed him in here; Gant was the first one I've met and thought wasn't a really bad guy-- he might get a bit heavy-handed, but he's always been all right." He looks at me, leaning back in his chair, chuckling to himself. "Funny thing-- I remember the morning Gant was going for the walk; I was making a cup of coffee as I was leaving for work," he says.

I wonder why he's distracting me like this. Waverley's no Rhodes scholar, but he's also not stupid. Years in the job has taught him plenty about manipulation-- and I'm wondering why, with a story and some concern, and the irritated nervousness-- he's talking to me. What does he  _want_? Or, probably more accurately-- what does he want to distract me from?

"There was this godamnned spider in my kitchen. Mean fucker of a thing; he'd been hanging around for about a week and I swear, I'd hit him dozens of times with the bug spray, and he'd crawl off somewhere, I'd assumed, to die." He inhales, clearly enjoying his story. "But this morning, no spider to be seen. It's dead; somewhere in my kitchen, there's a dead spider to be found when I'm looking for something-- until I pour myself the cup of coffee." His face shifts and he looks horrified. "And the wretched prick of a thing is  _in my coffee cup_."

Thankfully, I'm not arachnaphobic. 

"So I pour the start of my coffee, boiling water and this spider-- down the plughole, and I turn around, grab a new cup, and make another one-- and for some reason, I turn around towards the sink, and then I see it." He stops for effect, and smiles. "The spider. It's somehow avoided dying, it's crawling out of the plug and then when it gets into the sink, it's trying to climb up the side and it keeps slipping. And I just stood there, watching it for a few minutes, trying to climb up and falling back, trying and falling-- and then I realise I've been watching a fucking  _bug_ \--" 

 _Arachnid_ , I think, far too irritated-- "and I figure if it's got that much will to live, to avoid bug spray and boiling water and being tipped down my sink-- maybe I should give the damn thing the benefit of the doubt and let it live. Maybe for some reason, this spider was meant to live, right?" He shakes his head. "It sounds stupid, but I opened my window and picked it up with a fork and let it out."

I'm sitting behind my desk, watching him. Admittedly, I'm surprised. Waverley is capable of compassion and a sort of empathy. I hadn't expected that. 

"It was just strange that it happened on that morning; I remember driving into work and thinking about Gant, realising I wouldn't see him there, and on my way in there was that blackout-- and I went in to work to find that Gant had been pardoned."

"So you came to care about Gant because of a spider?"

"Not really," he says. "It was just a weird fucking coincidence. And I still don't like spiders. It's just that I remembered that one, and I guess Gant's the same: I have some kind of-- I dunno what you'd call it-- but Gant and I get along okay."

 

I blink, waiting for him to say more, and he doesn't.

  
"I suppose we got a bit off-track there," I tell him. I smile. "I didn't realise that you had that much to say."

Waverley smiles then, nastily, like he knows something that I don't. "I figured I should road test you," he says, a glimmer in his eyes that suggests a devious plan. "I heard you're on your way to becoming the new staff psych around here."

"Where did you hear something like that?" I ask. I'm twitching. If Parke was going to suggest that Waverley was our rat, I'm now in agreement. But if he's in with deNong and the higher-ups, this makes him much more dangerous than any of us had previously suspected. 

"It's about to happen, though, isn't it?" He stares at me for what feels like a long time, and I hold my ground, scared for some reason, but not giving into the fear.

The radio on Waverley's belt crackles, and I'm eternally grateful for the fact that Parke wants him in the filing office. 

"I'd better get out there," he says to me, his voice rough but good natured. "See what this prick wants now."

And he heads out of my office, and I remain in my seat, watching him leave, still trying to figure out what just happened then.

 

 

 

I remain in my office after Waverley has left, lost in thought. Are we all just Waverleys in a way, liking and showing mercy towards people we find familiarity and common ground with: do we empathise with people once we've attributed some of their strengths to things we can identify with?

I'm not sure, but I find myself thinking about Gavin. I came to like him when I started working with him; I remember the new found interest I had in the begining: he was polite and easy to deal with and intelligent-- and he had a good, if not slightly warped sense of humour. 

Did I like him for that or was it just me seeing what I hoped were common traits in us? 

And then I remember the horror I felt when I learned of what had happened to Klavier; I'd felt unreasonably betrayed, I'd felt lied to, I didn't want to deal with him any more. But I had. Something had drawn me back.

Had it been his magnetic personality or something  _I_  needed? In the same way I had been concerned about using Crescend as a patient for my own needs, needs neither of us would verbalise or possibly even be aware of-- I consider that about Gavin. Perhaps, I think, it's for the best that he's seeing someone else.

  
The afternoon is quiet compared to the morning; I have a session with a calmish Furio Tigre who talks happily about applying for parole-- he's got a  _good fucken lawyer_ , he tells me in his diminishing Bronx twang which sometimes reemerges when he's especially passionate about something-- who is trying to make a case for him to serve the rest of his time in the community.

"Youse'll write me a clean fucken bill of mental health, right, doc?" he asks hopefully as I nod my head and assure him that if he stays on his meds and out of trouble, I'd be more than happy to. The door closes and I long to step down to the staff room, even though I know what I'll be doing; I'll be glued to the news station and trying to see what happened during the trial. Maybe I should stop that, I think, with a sigh, considering Waverley's inside knowledge and now cursing myself for "losing" the contract in the bottom of the shredder. Silly me. 

It's when Parke appears at my office door that things perk up for me; it's mid-afternoon and he doesn't look drained and dispassionate any more, but considerably concerned. 

"You got a minute?" he asks. "We've got a big fucken problem on our hands." 

I look up from the papers in front of me.

"Tigre's parole application?"

"No-- Engarde."

I freeze, worried that something's happened, that in my busy state of mind, distracting myself from thinking about Gavin, I somehow missed a duress alarm or a radio call.

When I realise there wasn't one, and that Parke is looking at me as though he's scared of what he's about to say, I frown. "What about Engarde?"

"I got a phonecall from Bev Ridge, the nurse up at the clinic, about ten minutes ago," he tells me coldly.

"And...?" My insides are doing that frozen thing they did when I saw Redd White's cell after the duress alarm went off that afternoon. "He's still alive, isn't he?"

" _Yes_." Parke looks concerned for a moment, and shakes his head-- "I'm sorry-- and it's not Engarde I'm worried about so much as--"

 

He sits down at the chair in front of my desk, the one Waverley had departed, and looks at me, serious and ready to talk. "Engarde's not telling us something." 

  
"Do you think he has the shiv?"

"He doesn't," Parke says definitely. "I think the shiv was just a lie to get Wellington's ass kicked."

I nod slowly, still not believing it.

"He was thoroughly searched before he went in for his checkup," Parke says. "I was there and I signed off on it-- I've seen more of Engarde's naked ass than Gavin has. No shiv." His brow wrinkles and he looks worried still. "What I'm worried about are the injuries."

"He's a chronic self-harmer," I tell him. "And in solitary--" my voice hardens-- I don't  _like_  self-harmers left alone in solitary-- "He had the time and space to do that."

Parke looks at me suspiciously. "That's what he's telling me, too," he says. "But something's happened: I dunno if decided to shoot a load on the back wall or what, but it doesn't seem to fit with dragging himself along the floor and grazing up his face. And that  _also_  doesn't fit with the bruising around his throat."

I'm confused. "What do you mean by that?" I ask him. I wonder why, after I've said it, that I sound so ridiculously cautious. Then I realise what he means. "Do his observation notes state anything about him grazing himself or masturbating?"

Parke's face is hard still. "Nope," he says simply. "It's noted that he was scratching into his face and arms, but nothing about anything else."

I frown again. "Did you ask him about the injuries?"

"He just says that he's a self-harmer," he says with an unimpressed shrug, and then the look on his face intensifies. "Kind of like when you ask him if he's been raped and his memory goes vague when you ask who did it."

There's something suggestively accusing in his voice. 

And then I realise. It's a nightmare come to life; for a split second I get a flash of the door kicked down and Smeer caught in that flashbulb moment and Wellington crawling out from under the desk, and Engarde's smirk and  _This is awesome_  and the bang of the door and "stress leave" being uttered. I remember Colin Wood and a screaming Engarde being dragged off to solitary and demanding the cigarettes Wood had promised him. 

"It's either you or Waverley," he says. "And I'm not going to let this rest-- I've seen enough shit get covered up around here, and I'm sick of covering for people." 

"Are you alleging that I assaulted Engarde?" I demand.

And that's when Parke's face falls.

"I know it's not you," he says. "At least, I'm about ninety nine per cent certain it's not you-- I just know that nothing shocks me any more here."

I'm still horrified at the suggestion that there's  _any_  possibility that I could have assaulted someone. 

"Have you spoken to Waverley yet?" I ask. My voice suddenly becomes frantic. "Have samples been taken from the cell? Do we have footage showing anything--?"

Suddenly I'm understanding Waverley's meeting with me earlier.  _It's giving them a place and the time to make allegations_. 

Except that Engarde did nothing of the sort. 

"Waverley spoke to me earlier today," I tell Parke quietly. "He did seem stressed and irritated by Engarde getting a checkup." I smile slightly. "Good thing the policy came through in time, right?"

"I do  _not_  need any more  _shit_  right now," Parke tells me. "I don't know how to deal with this one-- if it was up to me, I'd have fired Waverley about two weeks after he started-- but it's out of my hands. And he's been made deputy manager while I'm on leave..."

I look at him from my desk, a suggestive face possibly insinuating  _defer your time off_. But for the fact that that isn't fair. Parke needs his vacation.

"At least we probably know who our rat is," I point out.

"I told you that this morning," he says. "You believe me now?"

"You didn't tell me, because Rick from the morgue showed up and--"

 

" _Shit_. That reminds me: that fucking paperwork for the mechanics." He sighs. "And I'd better get that done, because if Waverley keeps his shit up in here while I'm gone, Rick probably  _will_  be driving a body down to the funeral home." He chuckles and I can't help but smile. 

"What the fuck am I going to do about this?" he asks me. He's scared and twitching, and I have a sneaking suspicion that he may not be too dissimilar to most of the inmates here-- that fear might be disguised with rage. I can see his face tightening into a mass of lines, and a fist clenching. "If Waverley fucks up, this is on my shoulders." He stands up, and paces across the room. "If this comes out while I'm gone, I'm still manager, so it's my head on the chopping block, isn't it?"

I can't help but agree with him, and I don't know what to say. There are no words of comfort that I can offer him. The best I can attempt--

"I'll keep an eye on him while you're gone if you like."

Parke stops pacing for a moment and looks at me.

"If Engarde isn't talking about whatever happened to him, why would he in a few weeks? Maybe he just wants to do what he's done in the past and behave as though nothing happened. Perhaps nothing will come of it." 

Parke doesn't look impressed with my suggestion. "That may be the case, but still, Waverley shouldn't be doing this shit." He looks at me, terse and hard. "They can say all kinds of shit about me, that I'm a hardass and that I don't get things organised in a timely manner and that I'm an asshole and that I don't let them do things and that I won't let them room with their pals-- but there's one thing I can go home and sleep at night knowing." He smiles slightly. "I'm not corrupt." 

I think about the Wellington situation and look at him.

"I haven't hit anyone, I haven't taken bribes, I haven't played favourites with any of them. I listen to them when they come to me with complaints and I do what I can." He nods, looking uncertain. "I don't  _get_ how people can do shit like that--"

"I guess people are human," I say, thinking of my own knowledge about the Smeer situation, about what I didn't say and about how it's now too late to fix it, and all I can do is hope that the fact that I knew never comes out. "I suppose we get distracted by things and payoffs can look appealing." I pause. " _Power_  can look appealing for people who feel powerless... People can be swayed by the fact that they come to like certain people." My mind drifts to Waverley's discussion this morning.

"I don't  _like_  any of them," he says. "Not like  _that_ , anyway. I can see good in them, can see potential in them-- but I don't see them as friends." He's back to pacing. "I'm not sure others here are so objective," he continues, not looking at me. "Then again, I think some of them, particularly the especially vulnerable or deeply disturbed, will often forget why they're here-- and why  _we're_  here."

I don't know if he's implying anything about me, and my brain is focussing on how he could be referring to me, about the dreams and the secrets and Gavin's strange attachment to me. I'm not ready for any more discord at the moment, so I let it slide. I'm not Parke, falling apart and desperate for a break, and I'm not Waverley, abusive and terrifyingly close to the power base in the prison. I'm also not under any assumptions that any of the men I work with-- floor staff or inmates-- are friends of mine.

 

I clear my throat and Parke's head jerks up and he looks at me, startled. "I'm also shitting myself wondering what the hell Gavin's going to do when he finds out what's happened to Engarde," he says.

"Maybe he won't."

Parke snorts. "I think Gavin is better connected than he seems to let on," he says wryly. "I think the greatest ability that man has is that other people underestimate him and feel sorry for him or don't consider him to be a risk of any sort." He sighs, then, and I think he's about to say something. He doesn't, and there's the crackle of his radio which interrupts us. "I'll be glad to get rid of this thing," he says with a smile. "I hear the damn thing in my sleep, you know."

I return the smile, but watching him as he leaves, the heave in his step and the zombie crawl step, worries me. Parke has left the building. 

And Waverley will be taking his place.

And Gavin will return.


	21. Smile Time, Part One

I'm finishing up paperwork for the afternoon when I receive a call in my office. It's Parke, and he's sounding perfectly unsurprised. 

"Engarde wishes to have a word with you," he tells me. 

I was meant to be going home, but it's...  _Engarde_. I'm feeling guilty even though I know I shouldn't; I tried to make sure he wasn't left alone, all in order to ensure his safety, and it was that which caused him to be assaulted. Well, that and Waverley.

"Send him up," I tell him, and pause. "Any word on Gavin?"

 

"Not yet."

"You missed court TV today?"

"I barely made it to the bathroom on a couple of occasions, that's how busy I've been." He chuckles, and I can hear the relief in his voice, the way he's counting down the hours. Evidently, he's still busy because he doesn't stay on the line to chat. There's a pause and a murmur; he's talking to someone else-- and then he turns back to the phone. "Engarde's on his way."

  
When he arrives, I do what I can to avoid gasping at the change in him. He doesn't look like he's been in solitary, he looks like he's been in a brawl and come out second best. He edges into the room carefully, a spark of aggression in his step, and he looks around behind him suspiciously at Towne, who stares at me blankly. "You'll be all right in here?" he asks me.

"Sure."

Engarde sits down on the chair and looks at me intently. It's then when I can see the full extent of his injuries; the grazing on his face looks worse than it probably is; red swellings with plasma leaking over the wounds; they look painful in a stinging kind of way, inconvenient but not life-threatening. When he cranes his neck slightly, I see skin emerge from his shirt and notice the angry, blue-black marks which must have been fingers impressed against his throat. His hair covers the scarred side of his face as it usually does, but now, there are fresher wounds, and his hair has thinned too much to successfully hide them. His other eye, sad and brown and still strangely attractive in that before-he-was-ruined fashion, peers at me suspiciously.

"The things I have to do to get an appointment with you, doc," he mutters, smiling slightly, crossing his legs and not breaking the intensity in his gaze.

"How are you, Mr. Engarde?"

"What's happened to Dr. Smeer?" he asks me in monotone. Friendly casual hellos are done with, he wants answers. "He really deserves to be fired for such grossly inappropriate conduct, doesn't he?"

"We're not here to talk about staff members," I tell him gently, looking him over once more. "Would you like to talk about how you received those injuries?"

"What injuries?" he asks. All I need do is raise an eyebrow.

"I'm a self-harmer." He pauses, still looking at me, reading my expression and seeing through it all too well, deciding that he's not going to cooperate. "Go check my file." He shrugs. "What are you going to do about it?" 

"Hopefully keep you safe and try to stop it happening again," I tell him gently.

"By putting me on constants--  _real_  fucken smart, doc. You might as well have slid that shiv Wellington's got under the door and told me to knock myself out." 

So he doesn't believe that Wellington is shiv-less, either. It's knowledge that is both comforting and disturbing at the same time; I'm not imagining things, I'm not catastrophising. There  _is_  a shiv on the unit, and someone else thinks so, too. Even if that someone else is a man who slices his face up and whines like a toddler and lies and manipulates and annoys the vast majority of the people inside the prison. 

"Can you tell me about this shiv?"

He folds his arms, and tosses his head slightly. "I thought we weren't supposed to be talking about other people," he says haughtily. "You like changing the rules to suit you, don't you?"

"I'm sorry," I mutter. "Perhaps we could talk about something else?"

"Okay, Gavin: what's going on with him, when's he coming back? And where's he rooming-- he can move in with me because I've now got a single." He smiles at me, satisfied, and I feel a touch of pity for him; the way his face lights up for less than a second, even though he knows and I know it shouldn't; it's heartbreaking and hopeful. 

And I cannot assist him in his inquiries.

 

"We can't talk about other inmates here," I tell him, apologetic. "And I haven't received any information about Gavin, anyway."

Had I known anything, would I have told him? Perhaps. I'm not sure. Maybe the look on his face in that one shattering moment would have made me tell him.

But I can't. 

"Let's talk about what happened to you when you went into solitary."

"Yeah," he grunts. "I see Wellington sucking off Smeer and then I get dragged off to solitary while he gets to go to isolation for a bit." There's an anger rising in his voice. "Remember when I blew that guard for smokes and I was stuck in solitary for a  _week_ \--?"

"Things have changed since then." I'm trying to keep my voice even and non-biased. I hope I'm doing a reasonable job. 

"Yeah, like Waverley and Parke are covering for that drug-happy quack." His voice is bitter and furious. "He gets fired, though, doesn't he?" Now he's smug. "He's a doctor, right, like you-- so he'd have that code of practise stuff happening which says he's not allowed to fuck his clients."

"No one saw him engaged in a sexual act," I tell him, knowing that there's no way out of this, that Engarde will not drop the subject and that he'll only escalate if I try to change the topic. 

"That's bullshit," he snaps. "We saw how Smeer looked; what  _else_  was it meant to be? Wellington was picking up a paperweight off the floor and Dr. Smeer spontaneously orgasmed and nearly fell off his chair?"

I sigh. "I understand the circumstances were different in your situation." I'm trying to be grave and sympathetic.

"Yeah, the screw got fired, didn't he?"

He was either fired or too embarrassed to return to work, and aware that he probably would have been fired; I'm not sure. I don't say anything.

"It's not like he's the only one," he says, blase and nonchalant. "Plenty of guards do it." I'm not sure if he's exaggerating or not. "How the hell do you think Gavin got to see the optometrist so quickly?"

I shift uncomfortably in my seat. "Mr. Engarde, we're not here to talk about the corruption in the system," I tell him.

That's when he does something frightening. He leans back in his chair, calm, and composed for a moment. His eyes focus on mine in the same horrifying sort of way that Gavin's did early in our sessions, testing me, tapping wood, seeing where he can find weaknesses. 

"Then I have nothing I need to talk to you about," he says. "May I leave, please, doctor?" It's hauntingly similar to Gavin, as though he's been  _trained_.

I put my foot down. I'm tired of the manipulation-- from all of them, from the system, from Gavin, from Wellington and now from Engarde.

"No," I tell him. "We need to discuss your medication schedule while Dr. Smeer is absent."  _Absent_. What a tasteful way of putting it.

"You mean while he's having to explain that he's not a perv who should lose his license--"

I clear my throat and look at him. Beneath the swagger and the manipulation and the posturing and all the legal terminology and all the references to policy, he's still just Matt Engarde, I remind myself. Damaged and insecure and if left unattended, liable to be dangerous, whether it's to himself or to staff or to other inmates. 

"You wished to have a session with me," I remind him. "If you wanted to gossip, you could have talked to other people. Not that you should be," I make a point of mentioning. "If you're seen to be causing trouble, you may lose privileges..."

He studies me carefully for a moment, and I'm expecting a typically Engarde response, a vicious comeback that I'm threatening him, or possibly now a vague mention of prison policy designed to ensure his privacy and safety and to allow him to continue as he had been. But he looks almost puzzled in that moment, and I hear the scrape of his prison-issue sneakers on the carpet beneath his chair. 

"You're not allowed to talk about it, are you?" he asks me. 

Maybe the look of shock on my face does it, but I don't need him to acknowledge it with words; I'm nervous, now; he's found another weakness.

He looks at the desktop and then at me. "Okay," he says, slipping effortlessly into a perky and almost  _ditzy_  persona. "Let's talk about my meds, dude."

 

 

 

"Hey." I already know that it's going to be Lauryn on the phone. Maybe this signals the end of our awkward phase; we're just products of biology; we're running on survival right now and that means setting aside the superfluous and the indulgent.

We can worry about our own feelings and weirdness later, we're being grownups, we're worrying about those we have a responsibility for. Perhaps grownups is the wrong word; adults can be selfish and perfectly capable of putting themselves ahead of their responsibilities. Maybe we're being balanced and rational. For some reason, that feels comforting.

"So what do you think?" She sounds exhausted and incredulous. 

"I think I should have listened to my high school careers counsellor and gone into accountancy after today."

She chuckles. "You? An accountant?"

 

"I got political advisor, too."

"Too much backstabbing in politics." There's too much humour and a dry irony in her voice. Perhaps I was wrong and we're still in our awkward stage, we're about to hit it when the laughs run out. 

I decide to put an end to it before the jokes stop making me smile.

"What's happened?" I ask.

"Um..." She still sounds entirely consumed by disbelief. "You don't know? I just got home about twenty minutes ago-- all the media attention on the lawyers has..."

"So Justice was the one who went to the authorities?"

"Yeah," she says. I'm about to ask if the media have somehow made things worse for him and Klavier Gavin-- "But it's not  _Justice_ , it's the  _other_  lawyers."

Wright and Edgeworth. "What about them?"

She snorts with laughter, and then there's an eerie silence on the end of the line. "You haven't seen the news today?" she asks. "Heard it on the radio? Picked up a paper?"

I never had a chance to. And I was listening to the E-Z Drivethrough Sounds of Mike Malley in the car on my way home. Stuff from the early nineties-- not an era I especially like, but one definitely free of the Gavinners and Leonard Cohen and any other unexpected surprises.

"Nope."

 

"Geez." She inhales then, working out where to start. "Okay," she says. "Gavin was acquitted."

That's when the silence is returned at my end.

"Are-- are you there?" she asks urgently.

"...Yeah." There are a mass of questions bothering me. "He'll still have to do the two life sentences for the murders of the magician and the painter, though..." 

"Yep. But... funny story," she says, her voice speeding up-- "Apparently he just smiled and laughed when the verdict was announced-- it was the Jurist system which decided his innocence. Even though the evidence..."

"So what happened?" I ask abruptly. "He tried to poison Wright and Edgeworth, apparently...?"

"He'd set the entire thing up so that if Wright left him while they were involved, or if Wright did what he did and figured out that he'd been framed, Wright would likely come into contact with atroquinine."

" _How_ , though?" I'm thinking about the conversation I'd had earlier. "Wouldn't anything that old be discarded-- unless he managed to move the poison out of the prison..." I'm doing the calculations as I'm speaking. "But he didn't do that, he had no way of getting it in here and the detectives poked around and couldn't find--"

"There were  _traces_  of poison in a drawer in the house," she continues. "There's an irony there, too-- if they hadn't had that fight which had them clearing out the house, they wouldn't have thrown away the item--"

"I thought they broke up."

"I'm not so sure about that now," she says. She sounds almost pleased. "Apparently having someone try to kill you makes you realise what you're about to lose, and I've had the two of them talking to me all afternoon; they want to try and rebuild their relationship and--" she stops herself before she says too much. "From the way I see it, Gavin's plan was to humiliate them in lieu of being able to kill them, though if it hadn't been for circumstances which he had no idea about, he  _could_  have killed them."

 

I'm somewhat confused. "How was that?"

"The case dragged up a lot of past issues; about Wright's involvement with Gavin and with Edgeworth," she says quietly. "I can only imagine how Edgeworth would have reacted to  _that_ \--"

"Were you there?"

"No. But I saw the papers and the news report and I've been talking to people involved with the case. Apparently Gavin's lawyer is  _good_." 

" _Wonderful_." I'm still trying to work out how Gavin managed to nearly poison them. 

"He looked completely unfazed and almost amused by the entire trial," Lauryn says. Her voice is rising slightly. "I shouldn't ask, but... was he like that for you?"

"Sometimes. I think he likes to feel a sense of control-- once you get to know--"

"He placed atroquinine in a bottle of personal lubricant," she says stiffly. 

In some strange sort of way, I can distance myself, nod as she's silent after telling me, because something as underhanded and  _disturbing_  and as  _weird_  as that is so entirely believable for Gavin. 

A taunt from Gavin from months ago-- regarding Edgeworth being impotent-- works its way back into my memory. 

 _He knew_. The fact that they were still alive was reassurance, to him, that they weren't sexually involved. 

That's... "...insane," I murmur quietly. I can already envision Lauryn nodding, knowing, telling me she told me so but not. 

"Geez-- that's really--" I can't find the words. Underhanded. Cruel. Apathetic. Disturbing. Creepily clever in a way. 

"Apparently he harboured suspicions, with his growing paranoia, that Wright was having affairs, and that was a way to safeguard against that--"

"So Wright wasn't having affairs?" 

"Nope-- and apparently all that came out in court. It was just more of Gavin's delusional bullshit and his need for control over someone else--  _if I can't have you, no one will_." 

I'm not sure who I'm more horrified for at the moment; Lauryn, trying to deal with this and being the bearer of bad news, Wright and Edgeworth, Apollo, who, knowing him and his connection, could likely be feeling guilty at having set off the chain of events; Klavier, awkwardly dragged into the whole thing by mere association, or... strangely enough,  _Matt Engarde_. 

 _At least the others know what he's capable of_ , I think.  _At least they can trust their instincts and run if they choose_. Engarde has no such option.

I'm bothered by what's alarming me in this situation, that the scenario itself hasn't angered or upset me sufficiently, when it's clearly bothered Lauryn-- I'm  _bothered_  by the side effects despite being aware of the impact of it on the key players, and being aware of just how ridiculous the entire situation is in the first place.

What the hell is wrong with me? In all my years in the job, I've called many things into question, but it's never been my own morality and perception.

And then there's the worrying notion that trying to kill two lawyers, both of whom are known to many in the prison population-- might just give Gavin some cool points which he could desperately use right now. 

There's a long silence on both ends of the phone, and then Lauryn asks me softly-- "Are you okay?" She knows I've worked extensively with Gavin. She knows about the politics of the prison. She knows just about everything, except the thing I'm now wondering about. 

I give it some time before answering, knowing that a quick response either way will not sound convincing and comforting.

"I don't know."

 

I wonder how she'd respond if if were one of her clients saying that to her. I wonder what she'd note down about their state of mind. I remember the words of an old psychology lecturer in first year at college, talking about career moves.  _Those who can, do. Those who can't, teach._  

It elicited giggles from my classroom, but thinking about it now, I'm starting to wonder if he had a perfectly valid point. My life is about ensuring and encouraging the mental health of my patients. 

Even if my own can be called into question.

"That's... not good." Lauryn's voice deflates; she doesn't know what to say either. I'm guessing that she wants to say something sympathetic, but what do you say against this sort of craziness?  _I remember when I learned that John Doe was..._  Was  _what_? I'm dealing with the John Does from hell, the stuff you shouldn't believe but have to.

And Lauryn knows this.

"At least you don't have to deal with him any more," she says.

Except there's the problem. Part of me  _does_  want to deal with him, maybe some of me  _needs_  to. Not dealing with him isn't giving me answers, and in this state, I can only see him playing mind games with Smeer, whom he appears to have no respect for. And I’m not sure if that bothers me and I feel pity for him, or if part of me is delighted and siding, unfairly, with Kristoph.

Then again, he's played mind games with me. Considering that, and the knowledge that I'm just another brick in the wall to Kristoph Gavin feels oddly liberating, and yet depressing at the same time.

Then I remember Smeer’s _time off_.

"I suppose I  _will_  be dealing with him," I tell her. "Because I suppose he'll come back and need an assessment or decide that he wants to see a psychiatrist."

"Didn't you guys have that new guy--? Or has he run from the place screaming?"

"He's on stress leave." I'm trying to be diplomatic.

"Already?"

I clear my throat. No point in lying, I suppose. 

"He was allegedly receiving sexual favours from an inmate." 

Lauryn gasps. " _Already_?" she asks. "How'd he get through his training? His license should be revoked."

She's about to start on a rant, I suspect, about morals and the vulnerability of both the mentally ill and those in institutions. And for some strange reason, while I want to agree, I cut her off.

"He's an  _idiot_ , yes," I say. "I never liked his methods from the word go, and--"

"He was invading your turf, too," she continues--

"Yes, but-- I think he was set up."

"He still shouldn't have been doing that."

"I agree with you. But..." I don't know. "He shouldn't have; he should have hit an alarm or something. The inmate in question was formerly one of my patients. But he was desperate to see him as his psychiatrist; he was transferred to him-- something I didn't really contest..."

"And now you feel like it's your fault?" Did this conversation slip into a therapy session, or is this just Lauryn's autodrive?

"In a way, yes."

Lauryn sighs. "I may sound harsh," she says softly, "But you seem to have enough stress happening in your life right now, and unless you encouraged the inmate to do what he did, and you encouraged the doctor to accept it, and unless you arranged for the two of them to be caught, I think you're blaming yourself unnecessarily."

 _...unless you arranged for the two of them to get caught_.

Engarde's foot smashing into the door for the umpteenth time that morning, the loud clattering bang, the concentration on his face, the rage and the complete lack of fear-- occurs to me. 

Engarde was uncharacteristically hanging around that corridor that morning, demanding antidepressant medication, a missed dose unlikely to have that sort of side effect on his behaviour.

In my silence, I agree with Wellington now. Smeer was set up. 

I feel like an idiot; I should have seen this. As Lauryn starts talking about guilt, her voice turns to fuzz and the reality occurs to me. This was one of Matt Engarde's strategies. In the same way Gavin made sure he and Engarde were removed from the unit when it appeared that they were unsafe, Engarde was wanting to remove the things causing him to feel unsafe in Gavin's absence. Richard Wellington and Will Smeer being two of those things. A third being himself, possibly, having known about isolation-as-a-safety-measure from earlier, when he was sent to hospital and Gavin to iso.

 

"I think I know who did it," I murmur quietly.

"What was that?" Lauryn jerks to attention. "I just said, 'You've got to look after yourself in this job.'"

"I think I know who set the other psych up," I find myself saying. 

"Can you--?" 

I cut her off. "I'm sorry--" I tell her, "I need to ring work and let the unit manager know." 

"You shouldn't be taking work home with you like--" Funny words from someone who seems to have spent a lot of time consoling two of her own clients after hours. Funny because they're hypocritical and they're true. But there is always an exception to the rule, some grey area which bends things-- and this might just be it.

"Lauryn," I tell her sharply. "I need to do this." I'm thinking of not telling Parke about the shiv and about the bet to get Smeer and about White-- "I'll talk to you later, okay?"

 

 

 

Forty-five minutes later, I'm back at work. I blame my own sense of guilt about Parke's stress and the fact that I'd neglected to mention snippets of information which may have prevented said stressful events from occurring on the unit. Parke said he wanted loose ends tied up before he left. To me, that sounded ominous.

  
"Okay, so we got him back this afternoon, not long after you left, actually," he tells me as I'm putting my cell phone and my car keys into the personal safe just beyond the reception desk-- "He's in a lousy mood, says he's hungry and that he should have been released onto the unit by now. He's already asked about his rooming conditions and is annoyed that there are no plans to move him back in with Engarde." 

"So I get asked to come in because he's upset about room allocation?" We're walking down the corridor, quickly, like there's some urgency. There is, in a way: the sooner I deal with Gavin, the sooner I can go back home and do something else to take my mind off this.

"It's not just that," Parke tells me with a sigh, "He's actually in the right here; he pointed out that as an inmate with a history of being engaged with psychiatrists, he needs to see one upon his return from court."

Damn, he's good. He's correct, too, although that legislation was likely brought in for inmates who'd missed a few days of medication in the detention centre, not for people who were  _bored_. 

I smile grimly. "No one else could do it?" 

"Smeer's still out until he's met with the union, and the seniors won't turn up after hours even if there's a serious emergency, unless they're personally interested or they can use it as a case study in an academic paper somewhere." 

We turn the corner and I realise that I'm going to miss Parke's still-affable cynicism.

"Okay," I pause, noticing a couple of workers watching us and our frantic pacing, letting my voice drop before I continue. "I'm actually wanting to have a chat to you about-- what I rang about."

"So, Engarde set up Wellington to get Dr. Smeer into trouble and made the whole thing look like some silly prison gag?"

"Yes. And he's made himself look like a model citizen for refusing to partake in it."

We're still walking.

"I'm surprised Engarde's bright enough to come up with something like that." He shakes his head. "I always just assumed that he hired that hitman because he was too lazy and useless to kill that guy by himself," he mumbles. "Not because it was some sort of  _plan_. Engarde's too unstable and flippant for strategies."

"Don't you feel like it was  _timed_?" I ask as we push through into the professional corridor-- "He kicked that door down at the  _perfect_  moment."

"He was kicking a number of doors and screaming blue murder for his meds," Parke tells me. "He's not exactly low-maintenance."

"He was an actor," I point out.

"Precisely," Parke continues. "He was a diva. He'd lose it if his peas weren't all the same size or if his bed sheets weren't spotlessly clean."

"Before or after he's been in them with Gavin?" I ask dryly. I can't help but feel that he's failed to understand Engarde, as well as the point I've attempted to make.

Parke snorts. "You know what I mean."

"I think you're underestimating him. Engarde is a trained, professional  _actor._  He's convinced people he's a justice-seeking samurai who abhors underhanded cruelty and corruption. He could just as easily ham up some agitation and convince a lot of people that he's insane."

"So what about the real insanity?" Parke asks. "That's not an act."

"I agree. But I don't think that what happened is entirely coincidental, that's all. Especially when you have Wellington saying that he was set up, too."

We turn another corner and walk into the Solitary section, where Gavin was moved. Ironically, a day's difference and he would have had a section-mate to try to call out to-- Matt Engarde.

"I'll look into it," Parke says quickly. Not that it matters.

The conversation ceases as I get a sense of  _deja vu_. Gavin is sitting on the bed, peering up at me. 

"Oh, hello, doctor," he says, noticing me through the door, his voice audible through the small holes cut into the side for ventilation. "It's certainly a lovely surprise to see you again."

 

 

 

I look at Parke before I look at him, cautious and concerned. Gavin sounds as though he's relaxed, like he's just spent the afternoon in a day spa,  _not_  like the complaining, insane criminal I'd been told about.

Parke avoids my face, looks at Gavin and sighs. "You know the drill," he states coldly, and Gavin stands up, preparing to be wanded as the door is unlocked.

"The small rituals of this setting amuse me," Gavin tells us pleasantly as Parke shifts the metal detector around. "I mean, it is perfectly obvious that I have no metal items on my person--" there is a slight hum as the wand passes near his face and he removes his glasses to a nod from Parke and then the hum silenced-- "particularly since I was searched when I was returned here."

"Them's the rules," Parke tells him gruffly as he lifts his other foot. 

"Clear." Gavin settles back onto the bed and watches me as I'm about to enter. Before I do, Parke taps me on the shoulder and murmurs in an undertone. "If he's not talking about killing anyone, I want him back on the unit tonight," he says. "Tomorrow with the show, we're not going to have the staff to keep him supervised and he could escalate or try something since he'd be aware of that." 

I nod, and step into the cell. Parke shuts the door behind me.

I hope this is going to be a short session.

 

* * *

It's the same sort of scenario as before; he's in a slightly different cell to Engarde's, though: it doesn't smell as  _human_  as Engarde's did, and unlike last time, there is no chair in here. 

"I wish I could offer you somewhere to sit," he tells me apologetically. "But the prison staff were apparently advised to give me  _nothing_." He smiles at me. "You are more than welcome to sit next to me on the bed should you feel comfortable doing so." 

Comfortable: that's an interesting term. After everything I've been through with Gavin, I don't feel comfortable about him, I feel heightened. There's anticipation of violence or depravity of some kind, of some horrible situation unexpectedly shaking me, of being lulled into a false sense of comfort and then being struck out of left field.

But my legs are tired and I shan't be here for long. "Thankyou," I tell him. 

"My pleasure." He looks at me carefully, studying my face, and in an awkward fashion, not used to me voluntarily sitting so close to him, he shifts further along. "Where is Dr. Smeer?" he asks. There's a slight lilt in his voice, as though he could possibly be amused by my presence instead of his regular doctor's. "Tired out after his day in court, is he?" 

"Dr. Smeer is currently on leave," I tell him.

"But he only just started working with me," Gavin says. "And-- surely it's noted down somewhere in my file that I do  _not_  cope very well with abrupt change."

"It was a situation which couldn't be avoided," I explain. He raises an eyebrow at me, smirking slightly, but revealing nothing. I wonder if I'm being paranoid considering the idea that he might have been involved in Smeer's downfall.

"Very well then," he says, folding his hands into his lap. 

"How are you?" I ask. 

"Hungry," he says. "And I would like some mouthwash, to be honest, and now that I think about it, a shower would be pleasant." His voice remains even and stable. 

"If you are deemed settled enough, you might be able to return to the unit this evening," I tell him. Not that I'm encouraging him to cause minimum drama and to hopefully ensure a nice short session.

He nods. "I would appreciate that very much," he says. "But I suppose before we can do that, we need to talk about my circumstances." He smiles then, his teeth flashing. "I wonder what the legal world is thinking about the Jurist system  _now_ ," he says smugly.

"I heard you were acquitted."

He nods slowly. "You heard correctly," he tells me. "By six of my esteemed peers, I was deemed innocent." He's still smirking, guilty as sin. He knows it. I know it. 

"The prosecution had tried to build a case based merely on hearsay and  _very_  sketchy evidence-- they gambled, I suppose, on finding more when investigators received warrants to search particular areas." He's calm but amused, and there's a light in his eyes which wasn't there before.

 

"And now--" he continues-- "An apparently promising young lawyer has been thrown into the realms of the questionable-- could it be that Apollo Justice was merely attempting a limp-wristed attack upon me?" 

"Is that why you did it?" I ask him coldly.

"Did what?" We look at one another then, my eyes on his.

"According to the jury, I never did anything."

"According to Apollo Justice, you did." My voice is tight and unimpressed. "Obviously Justice had a reason to believe that you had attempted to murder Phoenix Wright in a similar manner to the way Drew Misham was killed."

He laughs then, hearty and haunting, his body not moving much as his mouth widens and his face wrinkles with amusement. The sound is... disturbing. I think back to the reports of when he was tried for the murder of Misham and the laughter which was described when he was led away from the courtroom. Is this the same laughter?

"Apparently I attempted to kill Wright by placing atroquinine in a bottle of sexual lubricant," he says with a smirk. "This probably would have been fatal if he and anyone else--" His face hardens as he says those last two words-- "had  _used_  it." He tilts his head and pushes his glasses up his nose. "Many households contain potentially lethal items-- there are kitchen knives and rat poison and chlorine for spa baths and sleeping pills and alcohol. None of these things are lethal unless they're actually  _used_  in a particular manner."

"But no one expects to find atroquinine in a bottle of lube."

"No one  _did_  find any atroquinine in a bottle of lube," he points out. "The closest they had were a few scant atroquinine traces on the inside of a bedside table drawer, and some traces of lubricant itself." He shrugs. "That drawer could have been used to store anything over the years.  _Phoenix Wright_  himself may have planted the atroquinine there in an attempt to kill  _me_. Perhaps Edgeworth did." He shakes his head. "The bedside table was purchased in Wright's poor days when he was subsisting off welfare payments and playing poker and piano-- the previous owner of the drawer may have stored atroquinine in that drawer." 

He chuckles to himself. "Edgeworth was interesting in court," he says, rolling off on a tangent. "I knew a few things about the man, a few details Wright had allowed to slip whilst intoxicated one evening when we were discussing previous relationships." He closes his eyes, as though savouring the memory. 

"Correction," he declares, winking. " _Wright_  talked about his previous relationships, about the woman who tried to poison him, about all that  _denial_  of what he really was, about coming out and stumbling into Edgeworth who was an even bigger mess than him." He can't hide the smirk in his voice. " _I_  never discussed anything of the sort with him; I vaguely mentioned I'd had a few brief flings but that it was rare for me to truly desire others." He sniffs, then, and looks at me. "I generally view people with contempt when they offer such banalities as 'I love you.'"

 _Wow_. He's silenced me with that confession, and I'm sitting there, reeling from it. I feel strangely powerful, like my body exudes truth serum, and that when speaking to me, Gavin can't help but spill the beans and admit to such things. Even though intellectually, I'm stilling myself and trying to convince myself that this isn't truth, this is Gavin's slow-release attempt at one-sided closeness, to give me a few tidbits like this, to keep me hooked in and interested and feeling powerful and influential so he can attempt to manipulate me some more.

My voice shudders when I reply to him. I can't throw the fact that I'm flattered. 

"Why is that?" I ask quietly.

"I abhor weakness and stupidity," he says bluntly. "I wouldn't say that I'm a fan of desperation, either." He looks down at his fingernails, and apparently upon finding something he's not pleased with, he frowns. "It's undignified."

"Did Wright ever tell you that he loved you?" I've noticed now that we're sitting much closer on the bed than we were earlier, and that my voice is shaken and soft, and that my heart is thumping which such force that I can hear it. As though on cue, my stomach growls quietly. 

Gavin and I both ignore that.

 

"Yes," he says. "He told me one evening after we'd had dinner and had returned to my place." He sounds so nonchalant. "I was aware, by this stage, that he was lying."

"Perhaps he wasn't," I offer.

"I was already suspicious that he was orchestrating my downfall," he tells me. "The love confession was just a smokescreen, icing on the cake, a stage prop." He can't quite look me in the eye for some reason. "I despise the notion of  _love_  being used as a cheap trick in that fashion."

"Maybe he did love you," I suggest hoarsely. "Perhaps he was conflicted--"

"Perhaps he was lonely and clinging for some physical affection," Gavin corrects me. "He was isolated, remember, the world and all those whom he held dear had walked away from him. I was all he had."

"And yet you couldn't believe that he loved you?" 

"I believed that he wanted a physical distraction that evening," he says coyly, folding his hands again and smiling sweetly. "And I provided him with that." There's a danger in his words which makes my skin crawl. We've verged wildly off topic, but once again, I'm drawn in and fascinated on some strange level, I'm wanting to understand him, and this is more than I've been offered in a long time. It feels familiar talking to him like this, like recalling a few bars from a childhood top ten hit and comfortably realising that I still know the lyrics.

"What about Apollo Justice?" 

He chuckles to himself, as though he's sniggering at a filthy joke. His hand is covering his mouth, his still elegant fingers visible. He pulls his hand away and looks at me seriously. 

" _Did_  Justice love me?" he asks cryptically. "Or did he just enjoy the thrill of risky sexual encounters with a superior in the workplace?" He looks thoughtful. "I suppose I loved both of them, in a sense, but what _they_  referred to as love was so petty and simplistic and  _artificial._ " He looks at me thoughtfully. "Both of them had a specific beauty to them, but upon consideration, I wouldn't have thought of their supposed feelings towards me as  _love_."

 _They were beautiful because they were helpless and adoring_ , I think, sickened. 

"What about Matt Engarde?"

His face hardens again, and I watch as his body tenses. He's trying to control his actions, but when I look down at his hand, I can see a redness, a blooming, as though I'm going to see the scar on the back of it.

I've hit a nerve. I've taunted the devil and gotten a result. It's invigorating and terrifying, and I quickly glimpse at the perspex window, hoping like all hell that there's someone behind it lest I've pushed too far.

"I do not love Engarde," he says abruptly. "And Engarde does not love me. Please refrain from trivialising things, doctor."

"I was--"

"No," he says, unable to hide the gritted teeth and the rage in his voice. "It is perfectly illogical for love to happen in a place like this." He pushed his fogging glasses up his nose. "Love is entirely stupid and senseless; it's something weak and malleable people use to prop themselves up in a world which would otherwise leave them feeling  _alone_. In this setting,  _love_  is waving a white flag at all and sundry and offering up your head on a chopping block."

His rage is calming, but he still looks twitchy and angry.

"It's interesting that you should say that," I tell him with a nod, hoping to give us an exit point for this subject. 

He sniffs. "Everyone behaves as though love is some kind of noble goal and some sort of special necessity." He pauses, brushing hair out of his line of vision. "Love isn't that at all. Love is all-encompassing and dark; love makes people take risks and leave themselves vulnerable and open to manipulation and damage. We say love is for fools affectionately, yet so many other stupid things people allow themselves to be sucked into are not referred to with the same glowing commentary."

"Have you always felt like this?" I ask.

He looks thoughtful for a moment, but thankfully, he's calming down. "Yes," he says.

"Even when you were a child?"

Another thoughtful look. " _Yes_." He pauses. "It is true that I loved Klavier in a sense, but it was...  _different_."

I don't want him to start talking about Klavier, either.

 

"What about Engarde, though?" I'm tempting fate again. "Surely you have some degree of concern for him." 

"Engarde has proven himself to be remarkably useful, and he and I happen to be sexually compatible," he states, then peers at me again. There's a sudden jolt of excitement in his movement which he hasn't managed to stifle in that split half-second. "Are there considerations being made for Engarde and I to share a cell again?" he asks. 

"Not that I am aware of," I tell him. 

We're interrupted by a noise somewhere outside the door, and he changes the subject.

"I suspect my time with you will be coming to a close," he says.

I don't say anything.

"Am I deemed suitable for release to the unit?"

"Do you  _want_  to return to the unit?"

" _Yes_ ," he says silkily. "I would like that very much." He pauses, and not-quite looking at me, continues. "I would also prefer to return to your client listing if that's at all possible," he states. "Dr. Smeer isn't as willing to listen as you are."

I smile grimly. "Perhaps you need to give Dr. Smeer a chance," I say in a voice that I realise has betrayed me.

"I did that and I could tell that he was disgusted with me. I do not trust Dr. Smeer at all, and I do not like speaking with him." He then looks around carefully. "How much longer will you be filling in for him?" he asks. "Will he be away for very long?"

I don't reply because I don't know how to. He cocks an eyebrow at me and gives me a smile that I neither like nor trust. "What  _happened_?" he asks.

With that sentence, I suddenly feel like he knows everything somehow. I don't know how to respond. I need to tell someone. Parke-- 

When there's a knock on the door, I stand up and leave the cell, seeing Parke's stern-looking face on the other side of the perspex.

"Everything okay?" he asks.

I nod. Gavin peers at him from his position on the bed and calls out to him. "Please accept my ill preparation for tomorrow's event," he says. "I hope that this doesn't exclude me from being able to watch the talents of others." 

How does he manage to make such a simple request sound so  _creepy_?

Parke merely nods, and I step out of the cell, trying to avoid Gavin's eyes even though I know he's watching me like a hawk and will be until I'm free of his line of vision.

The door closes.

"Everything good?" Parke asks we're walking down the corridor. 

"Yeah," I tell him. "He's no creepier than he was when he first came in here."

"No suicide risk? No risk of aggression towards other inmates or staff?" 

"None that wasn't there before."

Parke nods. 

"One thing, though-- I think someone needs to talk to him about what happened to Smeer."

Parke's eyebrows lift as his eyes widen. "That would explain a lot," he says. "If not, he just wants to look like he's manipulating events around him like they all do." He shrugs. "Far as I'm concerned, that one can go into Waverley's inbox."

We walk through the silent, locked-down units, and I try stealing glimpses at the inmates in their cells. Crescend, I notice, is reading sheets of music in serious concentration; Gant is chuckling to himself. Behr seems indifferent and is reading a novel.

"Looking forward to the show tomorrow?" Parke asks as we head out.

"I suppose so." I shrug. "You?"

 

"I'm looking forward to my last day before my vacation," he tells me with a smile.

 

 

The promise of the Smile Time Variety Show lingers ominously around me on that Saturday morning when I arrive at the prison. The car park is full; it's visitors' day gone wild; cars are stretched out for miles on the opposite side of the road, and are parked illegally in some cases over the other side on a patch of decorative garden. It happens like this every year; it's Mother's Day, Father's Day and Christmas combined; out of the woodwork, the forgotten souls behind bars receive visitors. 

The Smile Time Variety Show isn't just providing smiles for the guests but for the inmates as well. It's acknowledgement for many of them, that they're still here, that when they work at something, someone is going to be bothered arriving to notice it. It's all this, and fifteen minutes of fame, a moment where the attention from a crowd is focussed on  _them_. And where they can be a hero, an entertainer, an actor-- someone other than what their sentence and any media reports and legal officials might have said. 

  
Predictably, the desk jockeys are stressed and strained, and I push my way through a four-people-wide queue and head towards the corridor, past rooms where visitors are securing valuables and past a beeping metal detector and a pissed off looking guest. A woman who must be Crescend's mother-- she has the same angular face and intense eyes as he does, though the faint lines on her skin suggest she's a lot older than him-- argues with Joey on the desk when asked to remove her hairclip.

I don't see what happens, but I walk through to the staff room.

A meeting is already underway.

"Right," Parke continues, "We need staff strategically placed around the audience, we're doubling up near the front of the stage and by the exits. Brook--" he points to a worker I've never seen before-- "I want you keeping an eye on the visitors today with Waverley--" He nods apologetically to the young man who looks around awkwardly at everyone watching him. "I realise you've only just come in, and I'm glad you could work today-- we need as many hands on deck as possible." He smiles. "This is one of the fun days," he says comfortingly. "We won't have any trouble at all. They'd kill anyone who brings a lockdown about on the day of the talent show."

The new guy, Brook, smiles awkwardly, and Parke continues addressing the rest of us-- "Gentlemen, that's Donnie Brook-- one of the new casuals who was down for shadow shifts next week-- but he's worked in prisons before and should be right at home today." 

He moves on.

"I'm playing MC, along with Richard Wellington, after I explained that his stunt involving deepthroating bananas was inappropriate for both the prison's image and an audience of mixed ages." There are a few titters around the room, and someone from behind me calls out, "But I thought he preferred strawberries?" 

One of Wellington's well-known incidents involved what amounted to a temper tantrum and ended in a food fight, when kitchen staff served him a banana instead of the strawberries he'd been promised for some favour or another. Years on, it still pops up in conversation sometimes.

"It's ideal, actually," Parke continues, "It will keep Wellington engaged, he'll get his attention, and hopefully that means we can keep an eye on him given the tension which must be brewing now that Engarde's functioning on the unit again and Gavin's returned from court."

"Apparently he's going to kill Engarde," Towne says dryly. "I was warned of that this morning."

" _Right_." Parke looks irritated at Wellington being a disruption to the meeting. "All the more reason to keep a close eye on them."

 

"What do we do about toilet use?" Hamm asks. "Will it be like last year when they were just shifted off to the toilets down the general corridor?"

"Yep," says Parke. "And a worker escorts them down and waits outside; any longer than ten minutes, and we're going in. And... radio one another with your intentions-- quietly, please-- a few years ago some stoner's girlfriend stashed some weed and we had a line a mile long because they were smoking in there-- just use your common sense, people." He sighs. "Anything else?"

 

Caster speaks up. "How many visitors are coming in?" 

"How long is a piece of string?" Parke shrugs. "You saw the line out there; unless they're caught bringing in contraband or they come up on the refused entry list, they're in. It's the same as every year-- you saw the desk jockeys working overtime up front, didn't you?"

No one asks anything else. "Let's make this happen," Parke offers enthusiastically, pumping his fist in the air and looking thoroughly relieved to know that he's on vacation at the end of this shift.

 

* * *

The inmates are lined in up twos to file into the assembly area, the auditorium off the E wing's corridor. The movement and the buzz of the day appears to have everyone excited, and I watch as more than six hundred men stand there, filing into the room, with staff following after a group of them have headed in. Chairs are set up in rows, and they are quickly filled. It's testament to how much they want the Smile Time Variety Show to go ahead that no one so much as  _knocks_  a chair out of place accidentally. If only they could cooperate this well for everything else.

My insides lurch; the variety show always makes me feel like this despite the fact that Parke's correct: no one wants to be the person who ruins the day, but nonetheless, it's an enormous risk. The visitors haven't arrived yet; they will once the room is secure, being lead in at a side door and sectioned off towards the back of the room. Thankfully, the auditorium is enormous; it was formerly the main section of the prison prior to the expansion fifteen years ago. 

 _Everything will be all right_ , I keep advising myself despite the tension in the air and the crackle of the PA system. A roll down screen which used to be used for screening movies comes down at the side so the audience can see what's going on on stage.

When I walk in, I see Parke fiddling with the microphone and I can hear it snapping away to itself, little jolts and pops breaking up the soft white noise of conversation of the crowd. Wellington is sitting up the front by the stage and barking out orders-- "Flick that switch on it-- no,  _that_  one--" and Parke appears to be ignoring him. A few rows behind him, Moreau is looking interested, ignoring the conversations around him and watching intently, as though desperate to involve himself and save the day. Gant and Behr are talking about something enthusiastically, which makes me raise an eyebrow and watch them sharply. Neither would be that stupid, but someone else might be stupid enough to fall for a scheme of theirs. 

Julien Callander swings his feet, waiting, nervous. I sincerely hope he's not their target.

Gavin and Engarde look quietly content; they're sitting next to one another, and I'm relieved: whoever allowed them to-- Lily, I'm assuming-- has the right idea. They're not going to cause disruptions if it means they are allowed some time together. 

More inmates file in and take their seats, and I watch, transfixed at the sheer number of them, all together like this. Gavin is still stand-out visible due to his flaxen hair amongst a sea of darker browns and fleshtoned buzzcuts, and through the spacings in the chairs behind them, I can see his hand rested on Engarde's knee. Hopefully that's all the touching they'll do and hopefully the staff won't mind.

I watch as the visitors file in; assorted people I try to match up with the prisoners. There's another striking and noticeable sunflower blonde in amongst them. Klavier Gavin is dressed in his usual black leather pants and the purple jacket, and he walks in slowly, stunted, with a nervous-looking Justice at his side. Justice must be spooked; gone is the typical fire engine red suit; he's dressed in casual attire today, camel-brown cargo pants and a black hoodie. His hair is slicked down as though he really doesn't wish to be recognised, though the entire look fails to address his notably boyish face and big brown eyes. He arrives at his seat timidly; another glimpse at Klavier and I can see that Justice is not just stepping in time with him, but that the blonde's steps are aided with a cane.

 

My jaw drops in horror; something about seeing someone as young as Klavier requiring a mobility aid of any sort is depressing and confronting, and I wonder if the injuries he sustained after the attack resulted in his need for it. He doesn't look pitiful, though, his eyes are determined and cold, scanning the crowd, likely on the lookout for inmates he's sent here, assessing the room for possible danger. Not finding any, he sits gingerly, placing the cane at his side.

I glance around and notice the new guy, Brook, assisting someone's elderly relative to her seat. I watch as his gaze focusses on the resident celebrity and shrug at him. We see all types in here.

It takes about fifteen minutes for order to come to the room and the mumblings and murmurs to cease. Parke stands on the makeshift stage, introducing the show, thanking everyone for being there, and my eyes drift around at all the attendees. This is it; the day where we're not meant to have any problems. As with every other Smile Time Variety Show, I can't quite settle until the last act has finished, the visitors have left the premises and everyone is back on lock down. 


	22. Smile Time, Part Two

I'm almost lost in the magic and the enthusiasm of the Smile Time Variety Show. Parke and Wellington get to be different people for its duration; instead of being prison manager and inmate, they're a couple of presenters, joking around together on stage, sharing a laugh and commentary with the audience. Wellington shines with the attention, his eyes sparkly, an almost flirtatious swagger to his walk; he's not using sex to win over his targeted audience here, but charisma and personality. Depressingly, I consider the idea that this is one of the few occasions he's had the opportunity to do so. 

I want to shake Parke's hand for giving him that opportunity.

The show is full of surprises: Moreau predictably reads an old piece--  _The Hacker's Manifesto_  which was written some time before he was born but which still managed to be a favourite amongst online mischief makers and criminals. He grins nervously at the end of the reading to smiles from his fellow inmates, and a few raised fists from some of them and a quiet call of "Fuck the System!" He returns to his seat, a hero for a fleeting moment, a strange voice of the people, giving them something to attach to for a second.

Gant is another transformation; Parke had kept his word and supplied him with magicians' balloons, and under large hands and an intense smile and concentration, sausage-shaped balloons which cause the inmates to snigger suggestively are shaped into animals and swords and silly hats. The audience cheers when he makes a multicoloured hat with giant flowers on it and places it on Parke's head as his act finishes. It's a side of Gant seldom seen; playful and warm and positively campy. He smiles as he finishes and offers a bow. 

Stickler's reading is predictably lengthy, and it's during this point where my mind starts to drift around to what the other inmates are doing. Towne taps Gavin on the shoulder for some misdemeanour I haven't noticed, and then there's a soft crackle of the radio and I flick my volume up slightly.

One of the deMoraleses is the first to succumb to his need for the bathroom, and I watch him slip out of his seat as Hamm manouevres him out of the auditorium.  _Another three hours of this_ , I think to myself, as Stickler's reading finishes. 

Wocky Kitaki is the one worrying me. Kitaki struts onto the stage with the stance of a hardened criminal, a man suddenly vested with attention from hundreds. He smirks, shoulders slung low as though he's emphasising a muscular build, grabs the microphone from a startled looking Parke, and begins his act--

" _They say prison is da place to deal wit it,_ _  
Gonna come now stop dem talkin' shit,  
deMoraleses and Rivaleses gonna be my bitch--_"

He's sneering as he's attempting to rap. There is startled, hair-raised silence from the inmates, and I'm waiting.

They say you get a pre-emptive sense about things which are about to happen in this place, and I knew something was today. It's a relief to know it's this, for some reason. This lacks the sophistication of so many other schemers.

Eddie deMorales steps up from his seat and is hastily encouraged to sit down by one of his crew members. I glance around; Big Wins Kitaki is sitting on the end of a row, whispering something to a concerned-looking Caster; every other staff member is glancing at one another and the cluster of inmates towards that side of the room, wondering and waiting if there will be a need to strike.

In the midst of it all, someone's caught Gavin and Engarde sitting a bit too close together, and I shift my gaze in that direction to see Denham having a sharp and sort-of discreet conversation with them.

Wocky Kitaki, in typical fashion, has no idea when to shut up, and continues the rapping. 

" _Wocky's gonna get ya and hit ya for six_ _  
I'm gonna come and make you Rivales boys mah bitch--  
I'm tougher than youse are, I'm smarter too--  
I'm gonna fuck you up, that's what I'm gonna do--_"

Parke reappears on the stage and there's some quiet murmuring amongst him and Wocky, who clings steadfastly to the microphone in his hand, swinging it angrily and refusing to hand it over. 

Members of all the gangs now-- the deMoraleses, the Rivaleses, and a miscellaneous bikie gang who are probably waiting to hear of their impending Wocky's Bitch status, are rising from their seats, and that's when I shift back in my seat, waiting.

For the shriek of the duress alarm, the mass evacuation of the visitors, the SORT guys to come storming through, a massive headcount, an inquiry into the whole mess and then weeks later for Wocky Kitaki to go to Protective because everyone else in the prison is ready to kill and rape him for costing them the Smile Time Variety Show.

I close my eyes in anticipation, feeling a strange, displaced pang of disappointment for Crescend, who never got to be a rockstar for five more minutes. 

And then-- I'm waiting for it; chair legs screeching on the floor, screams, that panic and desperation in the air-- nothing. I open my eyes. Crisis averted: Big Wins is looking horrified and has appeared on-stage, silently walking his son down to his seat, stopping by the gang leaders to shake hands and attempt apology with them. Perhaps-- hopefully-- this was humbling enough for Wocky-- and humiliating enough-- for the other gangs to not retaliate. 

I hope so. I'm already imagining the meetings pending, and I'm not looking forward to them.

  
Behr is a strange surprise; when he's introduced, I do a double-take as he arrives on the stage, and the piano I assumed was at the back is dragged forwards.

It's then when I realise it: for a man of his age, Behr doesn't look particularly strong, but watching him effortlessly shift the piano across the stage, I'm chilled. If an instrument of that size and weight isn't much of an effort for him, I wonder what a human body would be like. 

The inmates watch him with the same sort of horrified fascination as I have. His shoulders tense slightly as he shifts the piano, and I wonder if it's been tuned, how it's going to sound and what he plans on playing. When he sits down elegantly and starts playing  _Fur Elise_  like a master musician, there's a collective gasp from the audience. Someone with a name as comical as "Smokey the Bear" isn't meant to play piano. 

Not like that.

It's during the piece, when everyone else is wide-eyed and absorbed, that I notice Byrne standing next to Gavin and having a quiet word with him. Moments later, Behr has ended his performance, and is bowing with the sophistication of a professional performer to cheers and whistles and applause, and Byrne is standing back at the side of the room.

I'm flinching involuntarily until Parke and Wellington appear on the stage again. Another act is introduced; a man from C-wing with whom I've barely engaged, performing another piano piece. He has my vague sympathy; he's nowhere near as polished as Behr was, and following after him much be difficult; the way he's tensed it's obvious he's aware of how terrible he sounds in comparison as well.

I'm waiting for something, I realise, and I can't figure out what it is. Everyone is listening politely, no one is misbehaving; even the gang members appear to have been appeased with apologies and the public humiliation of Wocky Kitaki.

The piece is finished, and Parke and Wellington appear on stage once more. 

"And next we have--" Parke starts, and a flustered, bewildered Wellington answers him, sounding thoroughly confused-- "K. V. Gavin." 

  
I don't know what made Gavin suddenly decide to be a part of the stage show; perhaps it was his desire to show the world that he managed to maintain a peaceful, calm face in the middle of potential chaos, maybe it was some sort of envy at Behr's talent. He approaches the stage to gasps of recognition from the visitors, people who'd seen him only days ago on the television and in the paper.

"And he's reading-- a poem." Wellington sounds uncomfortable. "From  _Alice in Wonderland_." He watches Gavin suspicious as he stands there, awaiting the spotlight, calm and composed, not nearly as nervous as the man before him or most of the others. Of everyone, he and Gant and Behr have held their own well enough; I suppose being in the public eye in their former lives made them become accustomed to public speaking. He clears his throat softly, a hand held to his mouth, and then begins, not correcting Wellington though the slight glance, contemptuous and unimpressed-- suggests he hasn't forgiven the sloppy introduction.

" _The sun was shining on the sea,_ _  
Shining with all his might:  
He did his very best to make  
The billows smooth and bright --_"

His voice is smooth, different to how he usually sounds in our sessions, there's a slightly higher, more nasal tweak to it, as though somewhere along the line he's learned projection or something. I feel my mind trying to catch up with the poem-- 

" _The Walrus and the Carpenter_ _  
Were walking close at hand:  
They wept like anything to see  
Such quantities of sand:  
'If this were only cleared away,'  
They said, 'it would be grand.'_"

I smile at the recognition, and he catches my smile then, smirking back at me as he continues, pushing his glasses up his nose, not losing the timing of the poem. He could remain solid and unbothered no matter what would be going on around him, I suspect, and I don't know if I'm in awe or terrified. In that split second that he's recognised me, he's focussed-- I can see him watching me as he's reciting the poem, speaking so elegantly and so innocently, reading a  _childrens'_  poem of all things-- 

" _Out four young Oysters hurried up._ _  
All eager for the treat:  
Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,  
Their shoes were clean and neat --_"

I can see his gaze draw away from mine, smug and accomplished as he recites the poem, still perfect and even and organised. He's scanning the visitors' section now, and I suspect I know what he's looking for.

Klavier Gavin stares back icily. Justice looks nervous, the attempted disguise failing him.

 _Mission accomplished_ , I find myself thinking as he continues.

" _The time has come,' the Walrus said,_ _  
'To talk of many things:  
Of shoes -- and ships -- and sealing wax --  
Of cabbages -- and kings --_"--

A glistening smile no one else understands, triumphant and dangerous; a smile I'm able to recognise but I doubt few others are. I'm not sure if I miss him as my patient, in a fleeting second I do; and then I'm not sure if I'm glad to be free of him once more. 

Manipulation and spin, wrapped up in a confident smile and a classic children's poem. Kristoph Gavin on stage.

" _It seems a shame,' the Walrus said,_ _  
'To play them such a trick.  
After we've brought them out so far,  
And made them trot so quick!'_\--"

It's strangely silent around me. I notice that somewhere, someone else has left their seat to be escorted out to the bathroom. I can't help but wonder if they're bored, overwhelmed, or harbouring the same strange sense that I am. 

Probably not.

" _'O Oysters,' said the Carpenter,_ _  
'You've had a pleasant run!  
Shall we be trotting home again?'  
But answer came there none --  
And this was scarcely odd, because  
They'd eaten every one._"

He flashes a smile at the audience as he finishes, and there's a strange silence before the polite applause. The inmates don't seem to know what to make of him, the visitors seem perplexed and mystified. 

And then Parke appears to seize the stage and Gavin walks quietly and without fanfare to his seat. For some reason, I feel like I can relax now.

 

The Timothy Plan on the stage in front of us isn't the same man who entered the prison. He's accustomed to recognition and an audience, but in lieu of his usual performances, he seems clumsy and embarrassed at appearing on stage. I'm not even sure why he's up there; perhaps his motivation is like Gavin's, a sort of peer group pressure, an insistence that if everyone else can step onto the stage and have their five minutes of fame, then he can as well. 

He combs his fingers through his hair awkwardly, barely meeting the eyes of the people watching him, and withdraws, from his pocket, a small, wrinkled piece of paper, and, painstakingly unfolding it, reads aloud to the audience--

" _You play the game_ _  
You get your fame  
Your chance at life  
And glittering lights  
You get your high  
You wonder why  
And wonder when  
It comes down again_."

He clears his throat. It's strange seeing him look so awkward; surely over the years he's had an audience to greater indignities to this. But I suppose this is one instance where he's doing something personal and not as easy to write off and laugh about-- here there is no money or notoriety or silliness, it's just him, on-stage, alone and vulnerable and personal. 

I glance back at the visitors, wondering if one off them spurned him on to appear on stage and to read what must be his own creation. And that's when I see a courage in Plan that I'd never noticed before.

" _You have your fun_ _  
Your day in the sun  
Your glitter and cash  
It all becomes trash--  
You do your crime  
You do your time  
Your head's filled with doubt  
Wondering when you'll get out._" 

It's never occurred to me until now that maybe Plan's insistence that this was all just a joke, the one-liners and the silliness, the not taking anything seriously, is just a very good front disguising his terror. Looking at him now, I can see it, and I feel as though I've underestimated him and been distracted by others in the system. And there's a sense of growing remorse at the missed opportunity.

" _The lights have faded_ _  
And you grow jaded  
You get time alone  
And calls on the phone  
Your only contact with the outside world  
People are twisted and lives unfurled  
And you wonder to yourself   
in all the shame  
and blame  
What you should have done   
to have won  
the game."_

There's an uncomfortable crack in his voice, and his eyes still meet no one's; they're steadily locked on the piece of paper in his hand which he turns over as he reads from the other side.

" _You look back_ _  
Wanting to get on track  
And you realise  
Amongst the fear and the lies  
That playing's one thing  
And you'll play to win  
But the way to win  
Isn't just to fit in--_

 _You're broken and damaged, a huge disgrace  
And the way to win--  
Is to not play   
in the first place._" 

He clears his throat and without even acknowledging the audience beyond him, steps back down into the seating, filling the empty seat between Behr and Crescend. Maybe it's an apology of sorts. Maybe it was a promise to himself. I'm unsure, but it intrigues me, and it appears to have shaken, in a way, everyone around him. I'm expecting high fives and laughter from the others he's seated with, instead, there's nothing. He's not laughing with them any more.

  
I watch as there's a shift in the room; we've been sitting here for awhile and people are growing restless. Parke and Wellington appear onstage and they seem enthusiastic; Parke explains there's some setup required for the next performance, and another rippled murmur grows through the crowd. And then I realise what it is, as I'm distracted again by Gavin standing up and making his way to the side of the row he's sitting at. He walks up to Hamm, smiling sweetly, and makes a request I can't hear but can suspect. Hamm nods and murmurs something into his radio; there's a crackle from my own which I've turned down so as not to disrupt the show; Gavin is leaving the building. From back at the seats, Engarde stands up hopefully and smiles, though he needs nothing more than an incredulous  _you're joking, right?_  look from Hamm to make him sit down and wait.

On-stage, as Gavin is escorted out and presumably to the bathroom, Wellington is moving speakers onto the stage and it occurs to me with the " _Oooh_ " of the crowd. 

It's Crescend's time to shine. And admittedly; I've been looking forward to this one. 

* * *

He's used to having other people set things up for him, I suppose.

And when he gets up on stage to the whoops of the crowd, picking up the guitar that's been set there for him, he does a double-take, glancing around at the audience. I wonder if his mother wound up getting through, or if the security risk of a hairclip caused her to be sent away. I hope not; since finding out about Crescend's desire to play music again, I've had a sense of hope for him; something about him and his loner status, his wild-eyed one-fingered aggression-- inspires pity in me. And watching the focus over the weeks, the genuine desire for him to get back and do what he used to do, is almost touching. I hope his mother gets to see this.

  
I feel cheated when I see that he looks almost disappointed by the crowd, that this auditorium full of people somehow didn't live up to his dream. What was he expecting? 

And then I feel uncomfortable: why  _shouldn't_  I feel sorry for him at his sudden hit from reality, that this is where he is, that the idea of playing to stadiums full of people is impossible now, that it's a dream faded and gone, that the name "Daryan Crescend" no longer means "rock star" but "criminal" and "hypocrite"? It must be confronting for him, to say the least. This is nothing compared to what he had at the height of the Gavinners' fame; it was late nights and the party scene, groupies and minders and interviews. Not a prison auditorium packed to the brim with a pile of nobodies, and daylight making the tired faces and the plastic chairs and the sea of grey uniforms all the more obvious. 

He's recognised, though, despite his prison garb and despite the signature hairstyle now dangling, thin and limp, around his shoulders. He looks more hippie than rock star, and the disappointment on his face at his audience is clear. He's humbled, in that moment, and then transformed, as he tests the guitar and then lets go with a screech and a flurry of fingertips.

In that moment, then, he's Daryan Crescend, performer. The guitar has spoken for him and reminded them who he is. 

We're transfixed at his intro, he's practised and it's deafeningly obvious now; I can't hear everyone around me gasp because the speakers have been cranked to the volume that they have; I'm watching him as he positions himself in front of the microphone, and starts singing--

" _We were always there for one another--  
Two lost souls mistaken for brothers--  
We saw the world and ruled it together--  
It was good and it kept getting better--_"

I'm wondering if he was the lyricist of the band, if Klavier was the image and the persona, and Daryan was the puppeteer behind the words, the composition, the one giving voice to the melodies.

" _When things changed I didn't know what to do  
Lost my head and saw an opportunity or two  
Lost my way and my freedom and will--  
But I'm back to say that I'm here and still--_" 

Another rumble of strings and an aggressive, heartfelt chorus which has us nodding along in time-- you could almost expect people to get up and start dancing, to shake along to the music, to make rock signs in the head and nod along with his words; he's still got the charisma and the personality for this, it's come back to him as though he was only just recently performing--

" _I'm still fighting on side for you  
Still wondering what I can do  
Still wanting to make them pay for you  
Still wanting to help you pull through--  
And I might as well stand up now and fight  
And try to make the wrongs you've seen right  
Might as well give it my best shot  
Coz now I'm here and that's all that I got---_"

His face is contorted in concentration, his body tense and his fingers-- constantly moving up and down the guitar's neck. People are cheering over the racket on stage, but I'm wondering who the song's for, who it's  _to_. 

It could be a passionate pop song, airy and like and full of purpose for a disollutioned generation but it's not. Like the lyrics of the other Gavinners' hits, they're intended for one person, disturbingly focussed yet wrapped up with the power and enthusiasm of rock and roll, turning the meaning behind them into a code, something only to be deciphered by a select few. 

" _Might as well go for a real long time_ _  
Might as well do something worthwhile  
Fix the hurt and heal the wounds  
I'll always be there for you, for you_..."

There's a darkness to the song; it's angry and determined, hellbent on revenge. Maybe he's copied Klavier's lyrical style; maybe this is his attempt at an  _Atroquinine, My Love._

I wonder what Klavier thinks.

Amongst the excitement, I turn behind me to look for Klavier, remembering where he was sitting. I can't see him, and amongst the mass of bodies, I can't see Justice, who looks all too similar to the other faces amongst the mob of visitors. I wish he'd worn the trademark red suit.

Perhaps they weren't here for Crescend, I think, which is sad, given the effort he put into working on the song, and given the talent he's sharing. He wanted Klavier to be there. Maybe Klavier, bitter and furious by what had happened, still hasn't forgiven him. 

Perhaps Klavier can't deal with being in the same space where he was so violently assaulted. The prison is just a place of traumatic memories and attempts to undermine his sanity; I don't blame him, but I'm curious; when did the icy, determined facade fall? What happened?

Everyone's distracted by an extended guitar solo, and that applies to Crescend himself. His eyes now closed as he's jumping around on stage, he's lost, free for a moment, back to doing what he loves. His eyes open, intense and intelligent and scanning the crowd for a connection in that charismatic way performers do, making them being an audience more than a passive experience; they're  _connecting_  with him.

It's mesmerising. And when he catches my eye, he smiles differently. There's a smug twist on his lips, like he's showing me that he's triumphed, and in those five minutes he's onstage, I don't remember being this proud of any of my clients, ever.

I turn behind me again as he bows and gives the audience a victory sign, chilled out and pleased with himself, trying to shrug it off with casual rockstar indifference. It doesn't quite have the desired effect; he's still grinning.

Even though Klavier Gavin has managed to miss the entire performance.

 

Engarde is up next. He shoots Crescend an expression of contempt; perhaps it's for being noticeably talented, perhaps it's because like me, he's read between the lines of the song and has obtained a darker meaning from them, suggestive of revenge and payback. As he slips into his seat, Crescend says nothing. 

Gavin's seat is still vacant, and perhaps that's why Engarde suddenly looks uncertain and defeated as he walks away from having a quiet word with Parke and towards the microphone. I watch as Wellington, spiteful and irritated, introduces him, using his full name, something he's managed not to do for any of the other inmates, his voice snide and hostile, comically bitchy to an unsuspecting public but dangerous to anyone who knows them. 

Not that it matters that Engarde's been identified. 

Engarde's another notorious celebrity, like Crescend and Behr and Gavin. But unlike the rest of them, Engarde's  _different_. 

Crescend was a worldwide celebrity, a famed officer of justice whose hypocrisy stunned everyone when he was incarcerated. Behr had been a high profile underworld figure for years, untouchable and smokelike, with the sort of legend behind him few could attain. There was a certain romance, to the public, in a man like Smokey the Bear, a skilled assassin and cleanup man, it harked back to the days of yore when underworld figures were larger than life personalities whom you almost wanted to cheer for; noir badasses with a hint of class and intrigue and something compellingly gentlemanly about them. Gant had possibly longed for that reputation but lacked the finesse. White had possibly wanted it, too, but his need to flash his cash and live the high life reduced the intrigue. 

The only other well-known figure with equal parts notoriety and fanbase whom I can think of in this day and age would be Shelly deKiller, still at large, according to the media, probably unlikely to surface anywhere. 

Gavin was the crazy, recognisable lawyer whom was related to one of the biggest celebrities of the day. The irony and the sheer gumption of his crimes, not to mention the epic courtroom battles and his already established identity as "the coolest defence in the West" made him a human interest story, someone recognisable to the public.

Engarde could not boast the same thing. Engarde was an actor, whose franchise continued beyond his imprisonment; the  _Samurai_  series, and the rest of Hollywood, hardly seemed bothered by his departure. Engarde was a criminal, yes, but the fact that he paid another to handle his dirty work made him even lower down the food chain to the general population. Fans of the  _Samurai_  shows didn't necessarily want him to receive the death penalty, but in the eyes of Jane and Joe Citizen, Engarde was little more than a ditzy, gutless brat who'd had his five minutes of fame.

His futility was what made him memorable, and now, standing on-stage, looking nervous, eyes scanning the crowd, most likely in search of Gavin-- he's no longer the shining youthful hero who was as refreshing as a spring breeze, but a miserable has-been, a  _joke_. 

He gets his murmur of recognition, though, people leaning in to look at him, Klavier still curiously absent from the visitors' section. 

  
He's carrying a book with him, worn and tattered, most likely from the library, and he opens it at a specific place, ready to read. Gone is the Nickel Samurai, up here he's free of the costume protecting him from everyone's gaze and the impersonal vision of studio cameras and staff. His hair covers one side of his face, lank and thinning and miserable-- he looks like he's desperately hiding behind it rather than cheekily peeping out from beneath it. His chin wobbles uncertainly, and his gaze flickers down to the page he's chosen to read from.

He clears his throat, determined to project his voice. I'm expecting a half-whisper which I don't get and which surprises me. I'm expecting eye contact with the audience, attempted charisma, but he knows he can't pull it off.

His eyes are on the page as he begins to read, steadily--

" _You'll bare your bones you'll grow you'll pray you'll only know_ _  
When the light appears, boy, when the light appears_ "

It vaguely rings a bell and it irritates me; I know it from somewhere but can't place it, and I'm annoyed that Engarde didn't introduce it. 

" _You'll sing and you'll love, you'll praise blue heavens above_ _  
When the light appears, boy, when the light appears..._

 _You'll whimper and you'll cry you'll get yourself sick and sigh  
You'll sleep and you'll dream you'll only know what you mean--_"

It's the crackle of the radio which shatters everything, and that's when Engarde stops completely, looking up, frozen and nervous like a dog that has just sensed an inherent danger in the air.

Parke's voice has come onto the radio now, and I turn up my volume. Everyone's stopped listening to Engarde, and since he's stopped reading, I'm watching Parke, his face full of concern as he stands by the edge of the stage.

I think I heard what was said a moment before. But in that distracted moment I'm unsure if I heard it correctly. 

 _Code grey in east wing passageway; man down, backup required._

The inmates are looking around with interest at one another. Engarde looks at everyone from the stage, confused, almost grateful for the distraction but terrified.

Parke cuts across him.

"Folks," he says, "We've had a minor complication which couldn't have been avoided," he says, trying to hide his exasperation amongst a smooth exterior. "Unfortunately, we're going to have to wrap things up here until further notice--"

And that's when the buzz starts. Radios start crackling and it's a cacophony of voices over Parke's--

"I will state for the record that it's just a minor hiccup we've had, so if the visitors could follow Mr. Brook out by the back door there--" An unseen person opens the door at the back of the room, and I notice the prison workers carefully forming a barrier at the back of the area where the inmates are seated. Visitors are standing up and moving towards the door already; the inmates are sitting obediently where they're meant to, though grumbling to themselves and asking what the hell is going on.

"Engarde, if you wouldn't mind--" Engarde looks relieved to be leaving the stage and joining the others once more; he's back to being part of the crowd again. Like the others, he's looking towards the door, waiting to find out what's happened. Unlike the others, he looks worried, though, concern marring his face, his hair flipped back slightly, revealing the still angry scratches and grazing on his face.

It feels like we're waiting for hours. Being a professional, not having any kind of authority and training in being a prison guard makes me feel superfluous and panicked. They're managing the situation, and I hear a radio call come through stating that the visitors have been secured and the inmates are ready to move. Standing amongst them, in amongst dozens of confused and increasingly angry inmates, I'm casually stroking my duress alarm again, in case I need to press it.

"What the fuck is going on here?" I hear someone yell out amongst the murmuring. 

"Fire alarm fucked up," someone else announces, only my brain is telling me that I knew what I heard, and that they wouldn't have gone to this effort to evacuate everyone over a faulty fire alarm. 

 _Man down..._  The crackle of the radio and the voice-- was it Waverley's-- runs through my brain again. Engarde's trying to get a grip on his panic; he's standing at the edge of the line of inmates, still looking at the door.

"Right," comes another voice over the radio. "Prison's on lockdown until further notice."

"Fuck that shit!" It's Crescend who reacts, jumping up and punching out at the air angrily. "We didn't do anything!"

Gant, standing behind him, puts a heavy hand on his shoulder. Crescend stops his performance, and watches the guards suspiciously. The bustling from everyone else continues.

I shift to the side, listening to Eddie and Ange DeMorales angrily discussing Kitaki's stunt, and there's more radio static and Lily, who I'd failed to notice before, swiftly crosses the auditorium and heads out the door to the side, unlocking it efficiently and quickly disappearing behind it.

"Where the fuck did she go?" someone else asks and no one says anything.

"It's Gavin again, isn't it?" Tigre growls. "What'd he do-- go fuck his brother up the ass again?" 

There are chuckles amongst the Gant group then, it's a comment that's broken the tension for a moment for most of them. But Crescend, standing amongst them now, looks furious, his fists clenched at his side as though he wants to hit out at someone.

And I can tell that Engarde has heard them, and I watch his face turn from worried to deathly terrifying. Thinking better than to react when outnumbered, he glares at them stormily, pacing at the edge of the line.

"Count!" Towne has attempted to take control of the situation and a headcount is initiated.

I'm watching from the distance, feeling displaced and awkward, lost in the chaos, as confused as the inmates are. One thing is certain, though: they're correct-- Gavin is nowhere to be seen.

 

I wait, lingering around the auditorium, feeling that undirected and unsure what assistance I can be of anyone. The least I can do is stay out of the way and wait until things are settled for the rest of the prison.

The sense of panic hasn't disappeared. Waiting around like this only makes it worse; the lack of distraction around me once the inmates are moved out means my mind can try and concoct dozens of scenarios which all end horribly and which involve things I'd rather not be thinking about.

When the hell is Smeer coming back to work? I'm almost hoping for a cover-up, for deNong to somehow make an investigation into Smeer's behaviour either not happen, for someone to downplay something-- completely unethical and wrong as it would be. Because if that were to happen, I think, as someone tells us over the radio that the A and B wings are now secure-- I wouldn't be caught up in whatever the latest Kristoph Gavin drama is. 

I'm still trying to piece it together. (" _D wing secure_." " _Copy that_.") Gavin asked to go to the bathroom not long after reading that poem for the variety show. Gavin didn't return. 

I was distracted by Daryan Crescend's song, too distracted to notice that something else had happened; in all likelihood, that Klavier and possibly Apollo Justice had left the auditorium as well. Did they follow Kristoph? Did they leave separately? The possibility of Justice leaving first, meeting Gavin in the bathroom and then--  _no_. Everyone was instructed to take one inmate out at a time, to radio the rest of the staff announcing their intentions... 

Suppose a radio call had been missed over the volume of the guitar amplifiers? 

" _E and G units now secure--_ "

" _C unit secure_." Bleep. " _How's F looking?_ "

" _I'll get back to you on that--_ "

I'm looking up to where the visitors were seated; there are now dozens of empty plastic seats in rows facing me. Something about the sight of them, and the emptiness of the auditorium makes me feel lonely in a way; there's a ridiculously sentimental pang of sadness threatening to overtake my concern; the show ended prematurely, and as the inmates were complaining-- good-naturedly, I felt, given that they'd been rehearsing their acts for  _weeks_ \-- it wasn't their fault.

Well, all but one of them.

I'm not sure if I want to find out what actually happened, what Gavin tried pulling now. I'm irritated with him for his selfishness, for screwing up the variety show for everyone else, for tainting a day where everyone put differences aside and attempted to work together for a few hours where they didn't have to be themselves and could make their loved ones proud. A dark side of me hopes that he's given  _hell_  when he returns, which I know he will be.

" _F wing secure-- stand by for managerial--_ "

" _Got that, Waverley-- ladies and gentlemen, the prison is now secure._ "

I can leave the auditorium with no concerns. The other non-floor workers made their escape with the visitors, I suppose, and standing there by myself makes me feel stupid now that I think about it: I'm neither a guard nor management, yet I'm not just another impartial and sometimes-there professional, am I? I teeter on edges; I'm a worker but I'm not a guard, I'm a visitor but part of the system, I'm an authority figure but I have none.

I slip out the side door and walk through, heading down the corridor, my footsteps heavy and echoing, the dull muted hum of voices in a room not far away.

It's the bathroom. Instinct, I suppose, the desire to know what's going on despite my better sense wanting to avoid it-- causes me to push the swinging door open.

Towne and Denham are standing there, looking at the blood on the floor, and the streak of it swiped across the wall. Denham is holding a hazardous waste bag in his hand, but Towne's got a clipboard and a pen.

"We  _can't_  clean it up," he says, brow furrowed. "Technically this is a crime scene now, and since he wants to press charges--" He turns to notice me. There is blood lower down on the wall, as though someone was slumped against it. I feel an involuntary shudder run through me.

"Mind where you step," Denham says. "This is  _apparently_  a crime scene."

"Look," Towne replies-- "We can ring Parke, but that's what he's gonna tell us: Crime scene. Which means managers and police--"

"And paperwork," grumbles Denham. "And likely an investigation into how this was allowed to happen and--" He smiles at me, tired and not ready for another steep hill up ahead. "And Parke gets to fuck off in a couple of hours."

"I guess he's stuck on overtime this afternoon," I tell them with a smile, deciding to leave them in the  _crime scene_  and head back to my office.

* * *

I can hear yells from the inmates in their cells as I head near the corridor-- "Code grey's death, isn't it?" "Nah, that's code red--" "That's fire, dickhead"-- like everyone else, it seems that they're trying to piece together what happened.

"I'm going to fucking kill that psychotic little fucker." It's the sneer and the rage in the voice which makes me look up; it's Crescend, standing in his cell, arm bent as though shielding light from his eyes, yelling out to Wellington and Gant. His face looks hot and angry, as though he's been slapped, and his eyes are little slits of cold fury. 

"Yeah, go ahead and tell everyone, get the whole unit locked down!" Wellington sniffs. "That's a  _threat_ , moron." 

"I mean it." Crescend notices me and slams his fist into the door. "You can tell that sack of shit that this is far from over."

"And tell him Engarde's got incuritis coz he got some from Crescend," Wellington sings out chirpily amidst the chaos.

"Fuck off." Crescend has a laugh in his voice, and with that I realised that I've just watched the alliances change once more on the unit.

I wish I hadn't wished revenge upon Gavin now, and I feel guilty in a way. 

Not for myself; because I should have higher morals, I should be less emotionally attached, less idealistically wanting justice to happen for these men; not for Crescend who I don't want to see wrapped up in the Gant group messes, and not even for Gavin himself.

It's for Engarde, who I notice just as I turn my head. Sitting on the bottom bunk of his otherwise empty cell, he's staring down miserably at the floor, the life and the fight drained out of him-- he hasn't even responded to taunts which should have sent him into a rage. 

Sentimental and stupid as it is of me, I don't want to see him like this. And I don't want to see where he'll be once Gavin returns to the unit.

 

I don't want to go back to my office. I don't want to go to the staff room for a catch up with frantic colleagues and to hear discussion about the monster who I've been dealing with, the monster who likes me, who I've defended on occasion to them--  _He's not that bad_ , I remember saying at one stage. That monster whose brother now has decided to thrust him into the courtroom.

I don't want to deal with more catcalls as I walk back, with the speculation from the inmates, with threats being made that I probably should be documenting. 

Pure and simple, I want a cigarette. I walk towards the exit and head outside. 

I notice, much as I wish not to, the top of his head, pale blonde hair, through a window in a meeting room. He's sitting down low and I can already imagine it, legs stretched under the table and a smirk on his face. Parke and Lily are in there with him; I can hear Parke's voice, a low, concerned murmur, and I can see the back of Lily's head.

I sigh and walk on, barely stealing a glance.

 _What the hell do we do with him?_  I think back to Waverley's crude suggestion that he should be kept in solitary until he "rots," and wonder if that really  _is_  the only option left for him. Rehabilitation is futile, and allowing him to mix with the rest of the prison population will likely prove lethal, if not for himself, but for someone else. He had a price on his head from the moment he became involved with Engarde, it seems; damaged, vulnerable, scattered Engarde with the self-destructive tendencies and suicidal ideation. Perhaps that's precisely why they get along, I think bitterly-- because some part of Engarde wants to be dead, and he's masochistic and broken enough to hope that death comes slowly and painfully.

And Gavin is the likely candidate to provide it.

I walk out past the front desk, and Grant gives me a crooked and tired smile. The exhaustion and frustration must be clear on my face. "Heading out?" he asks. I just nod.

"Oh--" he says as I continue towards the entryway-- "You're locker fifty nine, right?"

"Yes." I turn around to face him. 

"Your cell phone's been ringing non-stop. I'm going to have that damn ringtone stuck in my head for the rest of the afternoon." He smiles at me and I offer an apologetic smile, even though I suspect he's just making a good-natured joke. I'll get to it later. I don't want to talk to anyone who might hear me. I want to mull over things and have a cigarette, I want to kick back for five and hopefully return to a more settled unit.

"Thanks." I smile, feeling as though he can read through me and see the fact that I don't give a shit right now. He returns to his work, and I step out into the afternoon sunlight. It's amazing how fresh air can feel like a freedom sometimes.

  
It's when I see the figure in the distance that my brain, curious as the cat that got killed, suddenly wants to know what happened. I don't like the way I'm oscillating on this, I should be able to decide one way or another; I should be content to know that I'll find out the details later, most likely when I'm asking Kristoph Gavin why he did what he did and turning up nothing but more soft serene smiles and a tangle of half-truths and headgames.

But it's Apollo Justice standing there, looking out into the distance as though he's seen a ghost. And the compulsion to say something comforting hits me then, too. In a way, I'm reminded of Engarde, another, well, _not_  innocent, but undeserving of this drama, young man who'd been drawn into Gavin's lies and manipulation and charisma.

"Are you okay?" I ask him. I'm holding a lit cigarette, and he's biting his nails furiously. He flinches when he sees me standing next to him, and there's a moment of recognition. Wide-eyed and with the glassy look of someone trying desperately to maintain a sense of normal despite shock, he blinks.

"I'm waiting for a lift home," he tells me in a blather of confession. He's still in shock. "Mr. Edgeworth said he'd come and get me after what happened-- because I didn't actually see anything, they don't want me to talk to them and they asked if I wanted to wait in the visitor's room but I don't because this place just--" He stares at me, falling silent quickly.

"You don't need to explain yourself," I say gently. "You're a familiar figure around here, and I'm not security." I try to smile at him, and his face scrunches up, pained.

"I just didn't expect it," he says. "I've never seen him get violent and aggressive before-- not like  _that_ , anyway-- he'd always been so-- I didn't think he was capable of doing what he did in there." 

 _Of course he never saw him be violent_ , I think angrily. He saw the violence secondhand; he watched his mentor feed Wright through the wringer, he saw Wright lose his badge and his faith in a lot of people; he saw the evidence and the aftermath. He might have "known" Gavin as his mentor, and then met the  _real_  Gavin during the Misham trial, but until now, Justice never saw the actions, the brutal physical movements of an attack from him. He saw him how he saw him, in mottled, confused shades, there was respect and bitterness, infatuation and graciousness, humiliation and terror-- and then the stinging aftermath of betrayal sweetened with tempting memories. 

Perhaps the glassy-eyed look isn't due to shock but the desire to hold back tears. Maybe he's cried too much over his mentor's behaviour already; I'm not sure. 

"If I'd  _known_ \-- geez-- I would have talked him out of it. He said it was just a spur of the moment thing, that he was just overcome-- I... just..." And that's when he sniffles, turning his head to the side slightly. "I don't know what to think any more. I heard people leaving around me talking about all the  _blood_ , about--" 

I want to offer something comforting. "Where is he now?" I ask. "Do you know that?" I'm curious, actually. I never heard any ambulance arrive up the front so I can only assume Klavier remains inside the prison walls, being treated in the hospital. And that thought worries me, too-- just how serious  _are_  his injuries, anyway?

"He's in there," Justice says weakly. "They're questioning him." He sounds scared, and I'm feeling vaguely confused when he mutters-- "This is probably going to cost him his career."

"But--"

And then the penny drops. 

"Which Gavin are you talking about?"

He looks almost insulted, and I'm not sure if I feel guiltier for talking to Justice about this-- I really shouldn't be having this conversation-- or if I feel guiltier for jumping to a conclusion which seemed--

" _Klavier_ ," he says tightly. "Didn't they tell you anything?" His face is angry now, and there's a bite in his voice, pissed off and grumpy--  _Why do_ I _have to explain to_ you _what happened?_  "He saw Mr--  _Kristoph_ \-- leave and said he wanted to have a word with him-- I told him not to, pointed out that Daryan was even on-stage, and then that song started playing. He just lost it; he grumbled something about not being a victim and just walked out. And I tried to follow him but the guard would only let one person out at a time, so I waited by the side."

Which at least explains a few things, such as where they both "disappeared" to. 

"So it was Klavier who attacked Kristoph?" I ask quietly.

"He just walked back into the hall, and his hands were wet," Justice says. "And I figured there were no towels in the bathroom or something, and he just looked at me and said we had to leave." His voice speeds up as he's rambling again. "And then the guard walked us out and just as we're about to get taken up the front by another guard--" Grant, I'm supposing-- "He just lost it, started saying that he just cracked up in that split second, that..." His skin has blanched, and he stares at me, wide-eyed. "He confessed. He was wanting to tell someone what he'd done. He was shocked, and there were no guards around-- I think they were all down at the variety show-- and he waited around and I didn't know what to say-- I could sort of understand what he did, but..."

He sniffles again. I don't know what to say to him, and I step back. He turns to me to talk, seemingly wanting companionship. I have no idea why the hell he wants  _mine_  right now. Perhaps I look like a trustworthy, understanding professional, but in these moments, and knowing what I do now, I feel every bit as shaky and confused as he does.

"You don't think he's a terrible person, do you?" he asks vaguely, and I'm not sure which Gavin he's speaking about.

"I'm just here to do my job and try to make life easier for everyone," I reply with a nod. My cigarette burns between my fingertips, unsmoked. So much for that nicotine hit that I "needed."

He doesn't say anything, and I gulp nervously. So much for being comforting; I have a sense of failure about me; I can't even do that right. But I don't want to walk away and just leave him there.

"And so..." I start off uncomfortably. "You're being picked up, you said?"

He nods dumbly. "They won't let me go in and see Klavier, so I suppose I'll just--" He stops, and looks up like a startled rabbit. "Oh god-- the  _media_." I'd never thought about the layman's concerns about the media. Working in the prison for as long as I have has taught me that the media are enemies of the system, ready to find its flaws and exploit them for sensationalistic shock value. It makes you forget about the little people, the Justices.

With the shock snapping off a moment later comes the awful way his bottom lip trembles. "I can't deal with this," he says angrily. "I thought the media would finish up with that trial." There's anger and bitterness in his voice and I can sort of understand why; though I'm not sure who it's directed towards any more. 

"I understand why he did it, and I might have done the same thing, or at least  _wanted_  to, but--" 

I hate seeing him looking this vulnerable. The day has gone down like a lead balloon, heavy and dangerous and dark; and yet it takes seeing Justice, a man I barely know, on the verge of collapse, to finally get at me.

"I'm sorry," I offer. "Can I do anything for you?"

"No," he says. And he sounds as though his's about to add something-- a sarcastic suffix--  _unless you can kill my former mentor_ \-- but stops himself, biting his bottom lip awkwardly. "Um-- if I went up to that desk and said that I was Klavier Gavin's lawyer, would I be able to see him?"

Nice try. Typical lateral thinking. I smile at him.

"I have no idea," I tell him. "Though since he's not an inmate here, I don't--"

The two of us exchange a look of horror.

Was this somehow engineered by Gavin, like so many other things-- to somehow cause-- or accuse-- Klavier of assault, to have him charged, to destroy his career, his relationship, his connections with his friends and to land him in prison, an eternal companion destined to share time and humiliation with him--?

"I almost wonder if it actually happened like Klavier  _said_ ," Justice snarls. "Or if Klavier was being the good-natured,  _spineless_  little brother not wanting to admit to the  _shit_  his brother put him through." His teeth are gritted as he speaks, anger now mingled in with fear. "He wants Klavier here with him, doesn't he?" he asks. "He set up that whole incident before, too,  _didn't he_?" His voice is rising and speeding up again. "And he's not going to be satisfied until he's dragging Klavier back through all that  _shit_  which he'd been through before." His eyes blaze furiously, and he looks back at the prison. "I  _hate_  him," he says angrily. "I hate what he's done to all of us. He  _belongs_  in there." He's becoming incoherently furious. "I hope he dies in there," he says bitterly. "Because of what he did to Mr. Wright. Because of what he did to Klavier. Because of what he did to Mr. Edgeworth in court last week--"

And that's when I see he's crying. His tears are strangely sniffle-free, but running down his face quietly, the anger and growing volume in his voice distracting me from them. 

"I'm sorry," I tell him. I am. I'm almost feeling sorry for Gavin, too, though I don't really know why. Everything Justice has said sounds reasonable, but the idea of Gavin not even knowing that he's inspired this much hatred and death wishes from his once beloved pupil has a certain twist of sadness about it. The way Justice's face looks, too; sharp and furious-- is unnerving.

 _Don't let him get under your skin_ , I want to tell him, but it's futile-- he already got there. Years before I arrived on the scene; the one person Justice doesn't hate Gavin for ruining is himself, I have noticed.

He turns to face me. "Actually," he says defiantly-- "You  _can_  do something." His eyes are on mine; he's stopped crying but only just. I don't know what he's going to ask for. A sarcastic half-serious accidental overdose? A forged insanity report allowing Gavin to be the recipient of barbaric treatment?

I'm expecting any of these things, possibly worse.

"You're his psychiatrist, aren't you?" he asks softly.

"Not real--"

"You see him and he talks to you, right?" He's not going to take no for an answer, and I'm nervous.

I nod, dropping my cigarette butt. I'm littering, technically, right outside a prison. Oh, the irony. Justice's eyes are still fixed on mine.

"Make him drop the charges," he says angrily. His voice shakes as he gathers logic together. "As Klavier Gavin's lawyer, I want to advise him, too, that he won't be able to secure a conviction for his brother anyway. After the evidence of extensive psychiatric injuries he's suffered due to Kristoph's treatment, the worst thing that will happen is that he pleads insanity."  _And gets disbarred,_  I find myself failing to mention. 

"And do you know what  _else_  will happen if that does?" Justice asks. "Psychiatric reports will come out in court. Psychiatric reports detailing the years Klavier has been in treatment for all the revolting things his older brother has put him through-- maybe you might want to tell your client  _that_." He pauses, a grim, dangerous smile which doesn't suit him playing on his lips. "And I'm sure I could get some evidence suggesting that this wasn't an isolated event, either, that Kristoph Gavin has methodically and deliberately conspired to destroy people, and that his secrets are no longer safe with his victims." He's still glaring at me, determined. "I  _know_  he won't like that," he says. "And I'm sure you do, too." 

My mouth hangs open, and for once, I'm floored. I'd never really thought Justice was  _sneaky_  like that, or that such sneakiness would be used against the mentor who possibly cultivated it in the first place, but Justice smiles at me after his spiel, a little calmer and a lot more triumphant. 

I suddenly want to get back inside, to the safety of my office and the familiarity of the catcalls. And I want someone  _else_ 's explanation of what happened in there.

"I'm just trying to make your job easier," Justice tells me as I shift away nervously.

I give him an awkward, patch-it-up smile and head towards the door. Apparently I underestimated him and his ability to look after himself. 

My mind spins back to Gavin. As much as I don't like it, I'm worried for him.

 

Justice continues to smile at me as I shift awkwardly back to the entrance. The look on his face unnerves me; it's not  _him_. Not that I know him by any measure-- still, he  _looks_  so young and green, but when he's smiling like that, I'm not seeing the passionate little defense attorney who's becoming nearly as famous for his associations as he is his legal mind and circumstances. I'm seeing Klavier's extroversion, and I'm seeing his brother's smug, cool amusement. 

And yet Justice is a strange juxtaposition of so many things. Victim, victor, media excuse, lover, adult, youth-- he reminds of the typical early-twenties angst of trying to figure yourself out now that adulthood has found you. The issue for Justice, I suppose, was that he is defined by people around him for much of the time.

And standing on his own two feet, there's an element of the dangerous in there.

I walk back in, considering what he's just said to me. Gavin may have been lucky the last time he appeared in court, but this time, Justice is probably right: he could at least refer to Klavier's history of psychiatric issues and try for insanity. Klavier could still suffer repercussions in his working life, but surely he could bounce back from that, couldn't he?

At least, he wouldn't receive the prison sentence Gavin was apparently wanting him to get.

If Justice isn't just bluffing or thinking of an elaborate conspiracy, that is. But time and interaction has shown me that to underestimate Gavin and to assume that he's incapable of elaborate conspiracies is stupid-- _could_  Gavin have engineered things to arrive at this point, and if so,  _why_? In all his scheming, Gavin's never been one to cut off his nose to spite his face-- his plans have always been destructive to those around him but they've been designed to keep him out of the firing line and suffering minimal discomfort. And when he's gambled on things happening, he's done it carefully, and with assured results-- the situation with Smeer, assuming it came from him... the situation surrounding White's suicide... the hazy possibility that the assault upon Klavier last time was carefully orchestrated and set up by Gavin-- all of  _those_  had required observation and testing people before they arrived at their hideous conclusions. 

This, on the other hand, appears too perfectly random. Gavin doesn't like  _random_. Gavin's files and behaviour suggest that he doesn't cope well with change. His own behaviour and breakdown in court demonstrate that perfectly. He works within a set system-- when that system fails, he goes to pieces.

No.  _Engarde_ 's the chaotic one. And why he'd organise something like this-- how he'd  _know_  that Klavier would assault his brother seems like too far a stretch of the imagination. Engarde plays the system and throws disorder into it or his advantage, but he doesn't possess precognition.

I think I preferred the days when I didn't have to use words like "precognition" and "system" in the same sentence as "Engarde," the pre-Gavin days, when he was busy destroying himself with drugs and having random violent outbursts and either telling me I was his best friend or threatening to kill me. His new-found focus is disturbing, even though it looks like healthy functioning. 

And then there's Gavin, in the hospital. Perhaps he's been released, I think, as I enter the building,  _Any bets he'll wish to talk about what happened with me._

I'm reminded, as I pass Grant at the desk, to check my phone-- until I see Parke bustling out, looking frazzled but relieved to see me. 

"Can I've a word?" There's a low, concerned rumble in his voice. I nod, and we head out back to where I was standing before. Justice still stands there, waiting for his ride home, and he turns around, offering a casual wave and a smile. I smile back at him half-heartedly and nudge Parke. "Preferably not here," I suggest as he draws a cigarette to his lips and fumbles in his pocket for his lighter.

"Oh?" He looks at Justice curiously, and we shift to the side. "What's he doing hanging around here, anyway?"

"Waiting for a ride home."

As though on cue, the Alfa Romeo arrives and slows. Miles Edgeworth glances towards the car park, his face typically cool and aloof; Justice walks towards him, slowly and assured, not bypassing the opportunity to turn back to Parke and I and smile. We exchange a look, and as the door is opened and the young lawyer steps into the passenger side of the car, Parke sniffs. "Can't tell who his mentor was, can you?" he asks. 

I grin at him; I'm going to miss his sense of humour-- "Not at all." 

"And there I was, thinking it was just me and dealing with Gavin has made my brain see innuendo and scheming in everything everyone else does."

I'm glad it's not just me. And yet I'm horrified by that idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kristoph's reading is "The Walrus and the Carpenter" by Lewis Carroll, from "Through the Looking Glass."
> 
> Matt Engarde's reading is from "When the Light Appears" by Allen Ginsberg.
> 
> Both are used without permission.


	23. The Coward Does it With a Kiss

"Can we still talk here?" Parke asks. "I go anywhere near the floor and I get well-wishers hoping I'm gonna have a good vacation-- or last-minute crap that various inmates want cleared up-- Gant's already requested pool duty when the thing's complete, Behr's lawyer's been harrassing us about the fact that he wants a brand of moisturising cream that isn't on the supplies list, Moreau's still going on about the electrical fault--"

"Mil," I tell him sternly. "Do what you can and get out for a bit."  _And hope that you're not going to spend your vacation thinking about this place._

He sighs, his large shoulders hunching forward as he finds his lighter and ignites his cigarette. "You're right," he says. "But I need to have a chat to you about what just happened in there."

At least someone's going to tell me.

"I want you to keep an eye on Waverley while I'm gone," he says. I wasn't expecting that, nor was I expecting him to say it  _like that_ , intense and serious, yet with a weird hesitation in his voice. "Waverley's got something to do with this mess-- the Gavin brothers shouldn't have had  _any_  way of being in the same place together-- particularly not after what happened last time Klavier showed up here." 

"And... Waverley?"

"The new guy was out with the visitors, keeping an eye on the door. Waverley was the one who escorted Klavier through to the bathroom."

All I can do is raise an eyebrow.

"He admitted his mistake," Parke continues. "He said that over the racket of the guitar, he must have missed the radio message that  _Kristoph_  Gavin was being escorted out there. He says he didn't mean to."

"So how exactly did Klavier manage to do whatever he did in there?"

"We aren't expected to tail visitors in the toilet." Parke sighs. "Waverley got chatting with Hamm about the concert-- Hamm was pacing up and down the hallway and missed who Waverley was bringing in until they heard the noise--" His teeth are gritted as he speaks. " _Unfortunately_  while they both slipped up and there was a gross error of judgement, it really looks like a case of all the wrong things happening at the right time."

"So why watch Waverley?" I ask.

"Because I don't trust the bastard," Parke says, teeth still gritted. "Because I still don't think Engarde managed to graze half his face and leave the mess in solitary that he did by himself while Waverley was doing constants on him."

"So you think...?" I stop right there. There are instances of abuse from staff on occasion, and some would argue there's a "don't ask, don't tell" policy. The walls don't talk. CCTV footage can disappear and there are a million blindspots that you come to learn about the longer you're here. Internal politics suggest that it's easy for most to not say anything unless there is overwhelming evidence that something happened.

"I don't trust him," Parke says again, stiffly, indicating that the topic is closed for further discussion. "And you know what Engarde is like; he doesn't like looking like a victim."

I nod, knowing what he means. Engarde is good at mysteriously forgetting who assaulted him when he's been assaulted, and he's also very good at downplaying the extent of the things done to him. The only time he's owned up to involvement on any level is when it's given him a possible opportunity for bravado-- he didn't seem to mind being caught in the act with Wood, and he relished the comedy factor getting a guard suspended gave him for a while. 

But for everything else, his memory is a sieve, or his self-harming tendencies cause him to commit acts of violence against himself which are physically impossible.

Parke knows this. I know this.

 

"Do we have any way of getting Engarde to talk?" I ask hopefully. Concerns about Waverley can feel less guilt-inducing if there's the evidence of testimony backing them up.

  
"Sure we do." Parke’s sarcastic. "Move him in with his boyfriend and turn a blind eye to what he's getting up to or shift them up to Protective and he'll probably tell us  _deNong_  slept with him and Gant filmed it." There's a bitter smile from him. "I'm not going that route, though, and he's refused to go to Protective--"

"He was asked?" I hadn't heard about this.

"Yeah. After the incident involving Dr. Smeer, I had a manager's meeting with him and we talked about possibilities for him-- and I  _tried_  to sell him on Protective." His mouth turns downwards and he sighs again. "And he won't go. Won't hear anything of it if it's just him; he says he doesn't want to go to the pussy unit because those guys don't get to do anything and they  _can't_  mix with the rest of the population." He exhales on his cigarette. "I didn't realise Gavin meant that much to him."

"Perhaps it's about saving face, as well. He doesn't like looking like the victim, so he'll put up with a lot from people and he tries to fight back in his own way."

"Yeah, like getting Dr. Smeer investigated." There's a groan in his voice. "He's a fucking mess. All we need are a few more incidents and we could make a case for him to go to the psych unit--"

"Assuming all avenues with regards to medication have been exhausted," I remind him, "Or we get non-compliance in regards to medication-- or he suffers something we'd note down as a High Risk Trauma--" I stop, thinking of the things Engarde's already been through, many of which would already meet that classification. "And I'd rather not see any of those things happen."

And even then, I want to remind him, a stay in the psych unit isn't permanent. A stay in Protective is.

"Look, I don't, either, but he's a complex client and he's high-needs. With everything else happening around here, I don't think we have the resources to accommodate him."

"Really?" I ask. "We now have two psychiatrists on the unit. Between Dr. Smeer and I, someone should--"

"He's refused Dr. Smeer's help," he continues. "He's playing us, being manipulative-- right now you're considered some sort of hero, and--"

"That's his illness-- in case you're getting jealous."

Parke grins at me. 

"He's borderline, so he's all about the black and white thinking: you're either the best thing since internet porn or worse than a  _Jammin' Ninja_  fangirl in his mind."

"It's a pity we can't get Gavin into the  _Jammin' Ninja_."

I snort at the suggestion. "An old kids' TV show with bad cardboard cutouts and lousy production or your own personal and willing puppet," I point out-- "And you're Kristoph Gavin-- what would  _you_  prefer?" 

He gives me a look to indicate that he already  _knows_.

"I'm not pushing it too hard," he continues, "There's one bed in Protective right now and I have a sneaking suspicion that it'll be soon occupied by Wocky Kitaki."

No surprises there.

"What's happened with all that?"

"Nothing,  _yet_ ," he tells me. "But as far as I'm concerned, that's Waverley's problem for the next fortnight. I've already briefed him, he knows-- Kitaki's been told to pull his game up or he's going to be moved whether he likes it or not."

I nod. "So how long do you think Gavin'll be in hospital?"

"Can't say. I don't know what was wrong with him; when I popped up to have a look at him, he was bombed out on painkillers and the nurses were saying they needed to do some xrays. He wasn't being especially cooperative."

Thinking about Justice's suggestion-- or warning-- I wonder if I can have a word with him. "Can I go in and see him?"

"Sure. Knock yourself out-- since we're down one psych, you're the next one up for him, unless the hospital take it into their own hands, which they--" gritted teeth and a  _hmmmpph_  in his voice-- "Probably won't, because they're complaining they're short-staffed, too."

"Oh."

"They're going to want him out of there as soon as possible, is my guess-- he didn't look great, but it seems like it's mostly cosmetic."

"I've been advised that he wants to have his brother charged over the attack."

 

Parke's face tightens. "I heard the same thing, too," he tells me. "I'm not impressed, either-- and if he  _does_ , it's going to fall back onto us and failing our duty of care to him-- I think we'd  _all_  prefer not to have this blowing up in our faces--"

 

He's realised what I have, and that's that if it  _does_  blow up into something larger, other inmates who've been assaulted in the prison are going to start coming forth. "--Because if we do-- it's class action time, isn't it?" He sighs again. "And when that happens, I can start looking for another job ASAP-- and probably not with anyone else in the industry." He's sounding worried, but he calms himself with the next statement. "Right now he's sore and angry and his ego's a bit bruised-- we'll see how he's sounding when he cools off a bit. He might change his mind." Which is a lovely sentiment, except for the fact that Gavin isn't someone who changes his mind easily.

  
"I guess that one falls into Waverley's hands, too," I tell him, hoping he can get his vacation with considerable peace.

"That's precisely what I'm worried about." He sucks in on his cigarette again, the smoke emerging from his nostrils in little wisps. "We've seen Waverley fuck up before; odds are if he fucks this up, I'm going to be returning to an even bigger mess."

"Yeah." He turns to me, finishing his cigarette, dropping it at his feet as though glad to be rid of the place. "Just-- keep an eye on him."

I smile at him weakly. Keep an eye on him and  _then what_? Maybe Waverley won't try anything he shouldn't if he knows he's being watched, but then again, he's never really held me in any kind of regard anyway. 

"Enjoy your vacation," I tell him, suddenly nervous. He smiles.

"Yeah," he says. "And you enjoy yours without me banging on your door and asking how the hell to deal with these fruitcakes."

I smile back at him and he pats my shoulder. 

"Good luck, doc."

And that is how Mil Parke leaves the complex for his vacation. I hope it's a good one.

 

 

 

 

"And  _then_ \--" Waverley's walking as he's regaling the story of what he saw earlier in the afternoon-- "I just open the door, and look in, and I think-- well, you know what I was thinking, you'd have thought the same fucking thing, wouldn't you?-- I just hear this  _crack_  and his brother's laying into him with his walking stick."

Lily watches him, from the table, a cup of coffee in front of her. She doesn't look impressed by Waverley's tale of bravado, but she doesn't look particularly interested in an argument. "I hate to say it, but Gavin probably got what was coming to him," she says, her voice dull and drained--  _I'm too tired for this shit._

"And he was going  _mental_ \-- there's blood everywhere, Gavin's just hunched up in a little ball with his hands over his head,  _Herr Rockstar_  is just hitting him over and over like some kind of mental patient. And Hamm and I look at one another and Hamm asks him to stop, and he just  _does_. Throws his puncy walking stick down and starts  _crying_."

"That's fucked up." The new guy, Brook, is watching him, interested. "I've seen shit like that before, but still-- it's fucked  _up_." 

"And that's when you opened the door to see what's going on and I've grabbed this  _Klavier_  by the shoulder and his teeny little barely legal boyfriend comes bolting through and asks what's going on and he's  _sobbing_ , just an absolute wreck, going 'I don't know what I just did in there, it just  _happened_.'" He's got a smirk in his voice and a macho swagger in his step. Transfixed, all I can do is watch him in horror.

"And I'm torn between wanting to shake his hand and having to do what I have to do, so I escort him down to the offices and the boyfriend's practically screaming at me, no concern about Gavin or anything-- and the rest, as we know, is history."

The few of us in the staffroom-- Lily, Towne, Brook and Denham, are watching him as he slows down. "They think Klavier might have broken some  _bones_." He pauses. "All I can say is,  _good_ , and if that slows him down for a bit, I'll have a nice quiet couple of weeks."

I clear my throat and he turns to face me. He's startled, as though he's said too much in front of me, and Lily breaks the silence. "Until Engarde flips out."

 

"Engarde's behaving himself right now," he says. He looks at me and chuckles. "Did you see Parke as he was leaving?"

  
I don't say anything, and hope that my face reveals nothing.

"Nope? You missed the good news," he continues. "Looks like you've got him back on your books."

 _Wonderful_.

"Apparently Parke had a little talk with him this morning about going up to Hotel la Protective, and a few other things, and Engarde's said he'll cut out his histrionic bullshit and cooperate if he's seeing you from now on."

Well Parke didn't tell me  _that_.

"And after what he did to Dr. Smeer, I wouldn't blame Will if he wanted to deal out a bit of prosecutorial whoopass himself on that little prick."

There's a weird silence then, and the rest of us look at one another. If this is the toll of a new management regime, it's... confronting, to say the least.

"What's the plan?" Towne asks. "Right now we're on lockdown, so how are we going to manage them when we're not?"

"Well," Waverley says. "I've taken Engarde off obs, for starters-- he's enjoying the audience a bit much and with Gavin off the floor for awhile he'll probably get back into behaving himself." He smiles at me. "And with your help, of course, doctor."

I grimace at him and make my way towards the coffee.

"How is he?" Denham asks.

"Scared shitless," Waverley says with a broad grin. "He knows that I won't take his crap and that I don't care if he tops himself-- I'm not playing his games."

There's an awkward silence amongst us. Perhaps this is the point where we all realise that we're no longer dealing with Parke's style of management, and this is going to be--  _different_.

"I think he was referring to Gavin," Lily says tightly, still unimpressed. "And-- he's all right-- I think."

"I heard he was being a right prick to deal with."

"He's angry, yes, and he didn't appreciate being asked to change into a hospital gown-- and he wanted me to bring up his book from the unit."

Waverley snorts with derision.

"I was happy to oblige him on that, because, well, who  _cares_?" She shrugs. "It's not like he's hurting anyone with a copy of  _Death in Venice_." 

She pauses then, as though considering what she's just said. "At any rate, once he's finished, he'll likely get bored and wish to return to the unit to find something else to read. You know what he's like with his books." 

Waverley snorts but says nothing on the subject, as though he's silently agreeing with her.

"Apparently he wants to press charges against Klavier," I say offhandedly.

"He does," Lily says slowly. "And he... he has a legal right to, I guess. He  _was_  assaulted."

"Did Klavier ever press charges against  _him_?" Waverley growls.

"No, but he still--"

"This is going to really fuck things up around here," Towne notes. "Duty of care and--"

"I'll deal with him," Waverley assures him. "I don't want him screwing up stuff around here, either. It's my head on the block if that happens."  _And Parke's_ , I'm thinking, and I'm torn yet again between agreeing with Lily, in that same,  _he has the right, but_ \-- way, and wanting this to fade out slowly and quietly.

"Bribery?" Denham asks. 

"Hell no. I offer to bribe that prick and I'm putty in his hands. I'll go have a friendly chat with him."

I don't like the implication there, and my senses are heightened, waiting to pick up some other indication that he's teetering on corrupt.

"Just move him into Engarde's room and they'll be too busy screwing to worry about pressing charges against anyone," Towne suggests.

"At this point, they're not even having a  _shower_  together," Waverley says with disgust. "After what I caught them doing last time--" He won't elaborate on that. "Anyway--" he says sharply-- "I'll deal with this." 

No one questions him, and I decide to ask a question of my own. 

"Can I go and see him?"

Waverley rolls his eyes and waits for me to glare at him or answer him back, but I don't give him the satisfaction of annoyance. "Sure," he says when he realises that everyone's watching him for an answer. "Knock yourself out." 

 

 

 

The hospital is all but empty, and deathly silent when I arrive there. Of course, there's the white-noise hum of machinery in the distance, but there seem to be few patients and Nurse Ree is reading something with fixed interest at the station up front. I'm curious: has she acquired Gavin's files? 

A closer inspection reveals it's just a copy of  _Cosmo_  and when she realises I've noticed that, she flinches away, embarrassed, and I can't help but do the same. I've been caught reading over her shoulder, she's been caught slacking off. 

"He's out of it," she offers by means of excuse, already knowing why I'm here. "Waverley dropped him down to intermittent obs and he's had some pain killers and been bombed out of it for the last forty-five minutes..." She stops. "He looks  _so_  much like his brother, doesn't he?"

I ignore the reference to Klavier. "Do you think he might wish to see anyone?"

"Well... he might not be terribly coherent at the moment, but Parke rang up with a few names of people whom he would probably want to talk to. We've got--" She places the magazine down on her desktop and rifles through a file-- "Yep, you're on there, doctor." Of  _course_. I crane my neck and look over; there's my name and Lily's. 

"Is this an official list?"

"Don't think so. I've just been told to keep an eye on who comes in here; apparently he's made a few enemies since coming in and..." That was very diplomatic of Parke, I think: he failed to mention staff members but thankfully there's the recognition that it might be a good idea to keep an eye on who sees him. "But... Waverley's standing in as manager right now, isn't he?" 

"Yeah." I look out towards where the beds are.

"He's up by the far end-- he requested we have his curtains closed over for privacy-- even though he's  _sleeping_." She sounds unnerved by this, as though something's made her realise that he isn't the standard patient, like some slight difference, something as simple as wanting privacy, has revealed something  _odd_  about him. It's the sort of reaction he tends to bring out in people; one which I had a long time ago, it seems, but now I've grown oddly familiar with him. A need for privacy doesn't unnerve me. A need for controlling people does.

"May I go and see him?" 

"Sure." She shrugs. "He's probably still out of it; lemme know if he wants anything-- he should be getting his meal in a while."

I walk through the empty hospital wing, each step echoing through the corridor. There's a stillness to the place right now, and unlike the rest of the prison, windows allow for the dying afternoon sunlight to peek through, leaving golden glowing patches on the floor. It's so beautifully  _empty_.

 

Gavin's bed is sealed off with curtains, though I've noticed there's a gap at the side where either the material of the curtains won't stretch, or which has been pulled back slightly for inconspicuous observations. 

I peel it back and there's a clatter of curtain railing so loud that I'm expecting him to jump up, startled as I am at the volume. 

But he doesn't. He lies on the bed, strangely peaceful, his hands tucked under the thin white sheet covering him. Already I can see the damage on his face, and it's bizarre seeing him so utterly still and blissful while he looks like  _this_ \-- bruised and sore, with a cut running down from his forehead to his cheek. His glasses appear to have miraculously survived, and they're folded on the table beside him, atop a faded copy of  _Death in Venice_.

"Mr. Gavin?" I ask quietly. 

No movement. He smiles slightly, but he still looks asleep; perhaps he's dreaming about something-- the idea of what he might be dreaming about to elicit a smile from him is frightening. 

Then again, it could be my cynicism which is frightening; he could be dreaming of something as simple as a beautiful piece of music or a nice cup of tea. 

Or of Engarde, bleeding and gasping through a wad of torn sheet stuffed in his mouth, or of Klavier doing... I don't want to think about that.

"Mr. Gavin?" The smile fades and he lies there, perfectly still. I stand there, watching him; I wish he was hooked up to some kind of monitor, if his reactions to stimuli might be gauged by something, if I could tell whether he was awake or asleep.

  
"I guess we need to have a chat," I tell him softly, sitting down on the seat next to his bed. In the silence and with him lying there like that, I suddenly feel the need for some noise, even if it's just my own voice trying to sound in control and reassuring. I look at his bruised face and his uncharacteristically messy hair. "Funnily enough, I don't actually think you engineered this one." 

If he was anyone else, if I was merely a visitor in a hospital seeing a loved one, I might reach out to him, to brush that hair back tidily. I might stroke his face and tuck his sheets in a bit tighter. But Gavin's always struck me as someone funny about touch-- he has an air about him that suggests that it's acceptable for him to touch other people when he desires to do so, but that his own personal space is something not to be breached lightly. I don't touch him.

His stillness suggests that he can't even hear me anyway, that a touch wouldn't be acknowledged. I'd be touching him for my own comfort and reasons, and that would be a violation of trust. Maybe not on the same sort of level as Will Smeer, but too close to that for my own comfort.

"He's made a mess of you, hasn't he?" I ask. I'm staring at the cut on his face, and I'm reminded of Engarde's injuries, of his stitches lovingly pulled out by this man. "And I guess you get the afternoon off orbiting somewhere on pain relief." I smile. A simpler mind might think that Gavin  _had_  engineered this for pain medication, something strong enough to knock him out and remove him from prison life for a spell. "Don't get used to it," I joke. "Even with your clean reputation, they won't keep drugging you up like this, much as you might be in pain." 

No response. It's like I'm standing next to a dead body; he's stiff and still, possibly even able to control his own breathing. It's alarming, and I realise that I want to leave; at least I know he's alive, I've seen the damage for myself. 

"I guess this is pointless," I tell him. "A most unresponsive session, Mr. Gavin." I chuckle to myself. 

And then I start having reservations; he's so still and silent that perhaps he  _is_  dead. If I had a mirror to see fog on or I could check his pulse or heart rate--

I lean in close to him, trying to feel the movement and warmth of breath; he breathes lightly, it seems.  _Shit_. What if he  _is_  dead? I think of Lily's concern about Engarde going off, I think of the paperwork and the media circus and the veritable shitstorm which will spew forth, and then I think about Gavin just... not being here. I've gotten used to him, and I've gotten used to death. He was meant to be routinely executed, I remember; for some reason, the idea of him dying now seems premature and surreal even though it didn't two years ago. 

"Are you  _alive_  under there?" It's a stupid question and one not likely to receive an answer. I lean in even closer, my face near his, trying to feel his soft breath against my skin; something,  _anything_ \-- and my eyes dart towards the nurses' station. Nurse Ree has left the desk, anyway, I'm alone in here with--

It's not even a nanosecond when I feel fingernails digging into the flesh behind my ears, pulling my head downwards; in that moment of shock, I suppose my mouth opens in horror; I'm silenced and suffocating by his lips and tongue, delving into my mouth, the fetid taste of a mouth that hasn't seen a dentist in a long time and a tang of something dry and sweaty and possibly influenced by medication overwhelming me.

His grip is tight, I realise; he could move around at an angle and try to break my neck. I'd forgotten somewhere that beneath the calm exterior was a man whose rage and strength had enabled him to kill a man with a single blow to the head with a glass bottle. His eyes open to see my panic and horror and an attempt to break free; perhaps that's what breaks his grip as I stumble backwards, disgusted and shaking and horrified. 

He chuckles as I compose myself. 

"What the  _hell_  was that about?"

He blinks dozily and there's a smile on his lips. "I do apologise for my bad breath," he says casually. "I still wasn't granted the mouthwash I requested when I returned from court."

"I think that's the least of my concern right now," I snap back at him, the shudder running through me refusing to stop and exiting with my voice-- "What the--"

He chuckles to himself. "I won't claim to know very much about your field, doctor, but is it not true that many in your position would call that  _transference_?"

"Maybe Dr. Smeer would," I snarl back at him, "But that was--"

I've spoken too loudly and too sarcastically and too soon, and I've realised it too late. Forcing my voice to calm and wiping my chin with one hand, I glare at him hotly. "And  _no_ , I wouldn't argue  _that_  was transference. I'm pleased you decided to become a lawyer and not a psychoanalyst."

"It doesn't matter, does it?" he asks sweetly. "Either way, look where I've ended up; lying in a hospital bed in a prison after my brother violently assaulted me." There's a bit of a sparkle in his eye. "I  _am_ , however, interested in your opinions of Dr. Smeer," he tells me. "I cannot say I was especially fond of him, either, and I  _was_  suspicious of his motivations."

"You set that up, too, didn't you?" I growl angrily, my voice rising again.

"What? Dr. Smeer's departure?" He blinks innocently. "I only learned of it when I'd returned from court. Apparently he was caught receiving sexual favours from Richard Wellington." He's amused by it. "I was in court when that happened, as I'm sure you recall."

"You set up the circumstances to allow him to get caught, though, didn't you?"

"Not at all, and if you're  _going_  to make allegations like that, I'd appreciate some evidence suggesting that." He frowns melodramatically. "I apologise if I've offended you, doctor-- I would prefer to keep things civil with you particularly since I find our sessions most beneficial." He's still smiling at me. I'm still backing away. 

"Although," he adds, "If you'd  _like_  me to try and influence the situation surrounding Dr. Smeer, all you need do is tell me." Another pause and a smile from me. "I'm certain Engarde would appreciate seeing you as his professional psychiatric worker again, too."

"Engarde already  _is_  back on my books." 

He nods, eyes closing thoughtfully and then opening. He folds his hands into his lap serenely. "Good," he says. "Any chance that I could join him?"

"Not when you're behaving like  _that_."

"Oh,  _please_ ," he murmurs. " _You're_  not going to get in trouble for that-- it was  _my_ \-- slip of the tongue, shall we say?" He's so calm about it, so amused by my horror. I wonder if this was how he dealt with Klavier after doing what he did to him, this almost-denial and friendly, amused banter, minimising it and shifting the blame ever so slightly that if I were anyone else, I'd have seeds of doubt, wondering if I somehow played a part in it.

"You seem to find it funny." 

"And you don't seem at all amused by it-- not only do you have my apologies, but you also have my assurances that something like that will never happen again."

"I should hope not." I'm still standing, unamused. "It shouldn't have happened to begin with."

"I realise that now." He  _does_  sound remorseful, but still removed from the situation. As though he's said sorry for throwing bricks off a bridge only after realising that one of them fell through his boss' car, or that he's sorry for torching a library after realising that there was a book in there which he'd intended on reading.

"Why did you come here?" he asks suddenly. "The last time anyone came in, it was Waverley mentioning to the nurse that I was to be placed onto intermittent observations."

"So you were awake then?" 

"Yes." He pauses. "Sometimes you gain a lot more insight when people think you have no idea what's going on," he tells me. "I've never attempted such a foolish move with you, doctor, because you have always been honest with me and I understand that you're smart enough not to be easily fooled" _E_ _xcept just_ then, I think, "by such a cheap manoeuvre."

"So you're trying to flatter me instead?"

He stays silent, and he smiles at me. "I believe you arrived here for some sort of reason."

I did-- but I'm not too sure why. Justice requesting me to stop him pressing charges against Klavier occurs to me, but something I know, and which Justice himself should know, is that there is no  _making_ Gavin do anything.

"I understand that you're having Klavier charged with assault," I say quietly. 

His face remains calm and still. "I was assaulted, was I not?"

I nod. "You were-- and it's your right-- but--"

" _But_?" he asks, raising an eyebrow. "The law is absolute. There are no  _buts_."

"As a defence attorney, I'd have thought you would have known better than that?"

He chuckles and doesn't reply to that. "I'm merely seeking justice for damages I sustained," he says.

"Yet Klavier-- and  _others_  have never done the same with you."

"Perhaps there were no damages?" He chuckles again. "Or perhaps-- the cost of seeking justice was too high for them compared to the alleged  _damages_  I inflicted upon them." And I suspect that's all he's going to say about that.

I want to know what happened in court. But I know that pushing for answers will only get me vague and amused answers from him, and will do nothing to make him reconsider what he's trying to set in motion.

"What do you hope to achieve by having Klavier charged with assault?" I ask carefully, still watching his eyes. "What do you think will happen?"

"Justice," he says calmly. "Which should be the primary motivation of any good defence attorney."

Perhaps now isn't the time to point out that he's no longer a defence attorney and that killing two people, and trying to murder another three-- as well as the suspected involvement he's had in the death and injury of others-- doesn't compute very well for a man who is seeking justice.

"What do you think  _would_  happen to Klavier?"

"I'm not sure," he says. "He'd likely receive a caution and he may lose his badge--"

"Phoenix Wright lost his for a lesser offense."

He grimaces when I mention Wright. "Wright, to my understanding, regained his badge, resat the bar and and is still practising."

"And do you expect Klavier would do the same thing?"

"I don't know," he says coolly. "And to be honest, I don't particularly care."

"How would you feel about him being sentenced to a prison term? Here? With you?"

His eyes glisten with interest and I realise I've definitely said the wrong thing. He doesn't reply to that.

"Since you're here," he says, "May I inquire as to the well-being of my contemporaries?"

"By that, you mean Engarde, don't you?"

He smirks. "And Callander, actually."

 

"Callander?"

 

"I find him..." And he trails off there, unsure how to finish the sentence. I have a sick, twisted feeling in the pit of my stomach, that Callander's being set up by him for something. Callander and Engarde, both rejects from the Gant group. Both taken in and manipulated by Gavin. 

We're interrupted by a clatter down the corridor, and we both turn to see Arlo Rough, one of the bikies from D-wing, wheeling a trolley with a meal tray on it. He eyes Gavin suspiciously, about to ask something, and then notices me standing there and remains silent.

"I presume you've come to feed me?" Gavin asks sweetly.

Rough grunts and shifts the food over, and Gavin, obviously quite hungry, shifts in his bed awkwardly, wincing at the strain on his hand. Rough nods and leaves, his tone and movement clear-- he's unimpressed. Despite what may have happened, to him, Gavin was to blame for the unit being put into lockdown.

"You appear to be in pain," I note.

Gavin shifts again and looks down at the food. "I am," he says, wrinkling his nose. "And I will be if I choose to eat any of this revolting slop." It's macaroni and cheese. He grabs the apple on the side of the tray and holds it, as though he's trying to ascertain how safe it is to eat compared to the mac and cheese.

I ignore his complaint about the food and look down at the chart at the end of the bed. "Have they given you anything recently?"

"They did, earlier," he says. "Though I suspect the intended effect was to keep me sated and hopefully asleep so they could discuss me rather than to alleviate my pain." He looks at his arm. "Apparently this could be sprained," he says. "The xrays showed no breakages."

"I suppose that's a positive."

He wrinkles his nose. "Not really," he says. "Because it still is quite tender, and the pain makes moving around difficult." He looks at the apple and then at me, and places it on the tray. Food can wait for him; I think he likes the company.

"Engarde once told me that pain was his way of knowing that he was alive," he says. "A concept which I can grasp intellectually but which I still fail to understand." 

"And why is that?" It's interesting, the idea that he can understand Engarde's masochism, but only so much; only enough to be able to enjoy it himself, but without anything deeper, without any sympathy. 

"I suppose it shows just how damaged Engarde is," he says. "Imagine only being able to experience sensation because it's painful." He shifts again with the speed and grace of an arthritic old man, wincing. "For me, pain is an indication that something is wrong, that the body is sending out a distress symbol." He smiles. "Admittedly, I have an attraction to seeing people in that state," he says, "Though I cannot say that I enjoy being in that state myself." He looks thoughtful. 

"How do you know you're alive, then?" 

"Because I'm breathing," he says. "Because I'm conscious. Because I'm doing things and feeling things and thinking about things and making plans and--" He cuts off. "I don't need such a sharp and rude interference to alert me to the fact that I'm living." He looks thoughtful again. "Though unlike Engarde-- and a number of other men here, I don't need drugs to dull the sensation of being alive, either."

 

"Just the sensation of the pain?" 

  
He nods. Somewhere in the background there's the hoot of an alarm, and he stretches towards the bedside table, not quite reaching his glasses. I automatically pass them to him, and he unfolds them and puts them on.

"That's better," he says cheerfully, still serene and calm. "I just wish I was also allowed a few standard cosmetic items in order to feel entirely human again." 

"Perhaps you can ask Lily for them next time you see her?"

"She's on the afternoon shift tomorrow," he says. "Perhaps I  _will_  ask for some stronger pain medication."

I offer him a smile and step back, watching as his food grabs his attention. 

"I have to go, Mr. Gavin," I tell him. "I'll see you when you're back on the unit." 

He smiles in the sort of way that makes me feel like he doesn't really believe that, but he nods, acquiescent. "Please do me the favour of saying hello to Engarde for me," he says. 

I nod, not confirming that I will, but not seeing any harm in that. 

And when I'm leaving, I'm relieved that he's still functioning and still alive, but thinking that I've achieved little beyond learning this.

 

 

I can walk out of the hospital holding my head high, forcing myself to remain steady, to think about the conversation I've had with Gavin, to try and leech as much as possible that I can from it which could be useful. Could Engarde somehow provide motivation for him to drop the charges and behave himself? I make my brain work overtime contemplating this, because otherwise--

I stumble once I'm out of the hospital wing. I can still  _taste_  him in my mouth, and my head's spinning with nausea that I've been able to stave off for long enough to see me out of the hospital wing, but I need-- I need to sit down. I make a dash for an empty bathroom and lock myself in a cubicle, sitting on the toilet seat, my head down and steadied on my fist-- was  _this_  what Rodin's  _Thinker_  was thinking about? 

He  _kissed me_. And pulled on my head, yanking my ears and pinching at them violently during the act of kissing me: it wasn't about affection or love, it was about a display of ownership and dominance. None of this is any less discomforting; he overstepped a boundary and had little to no remorse. 

And... he kissed me.

Thinking about it then, I'm vaguely amused-- I've seen all kinds of madness from my clients here, I've been threatened and attacked and I've had things thrown at me. I've been cursed and sworn at and my family have been threatened. 

I've never been kissed by any of them; hell, I've never kissed by another  _man_  full stop. The only comforting thought about the whole mess, scattered and shaking as its left me-- is that Gavin's need for privacy, the closed curtains-- likely meant that no one else saw anything. Because having a smug, all-too-amused Waverley hounding me about it, and then comments from the staff gossip mill-- is horrifying.

It's in that moment that I feel another strangely sympathetic pull towards Will Smeer. While his circumstances were wildly different to mine, I can only imagine what everyone is thinking about him now, and I can only wonder if he'd ever taken the job, completely unaware of what was going to happen. 

The nausea grabs at me, making me want to retch in the bathroom; maybe it's my headspace, maybe it's the overwhelming stench of cheap cleaning chemicals-- I'm not sure, but I need fresh air. I duck out, ironically, for a cigarette.

  


 

  
There are five messages on my phone. Four of the missed call numbers are from Lauryn, predictably, and the thought of talking to her at the end of the day is both comforting and exhausting. I'm not sure that I want to.

The fifth is a mystery, a cell phone number I'm unfamiliar with, sandwiched in the middle of the calls from Lauryn. I study it for a moment, a sense of dread running through me as I do-- my number is  _private_  and for good reason-- though I wonder if Waverley's called me in order to demonstrate that as manager, he has my contact details and isn't afraid to use them. Though the timing is off-- why would he have called when the incident was happening? He knew where I was, in the auditorium with everyone else.

 

I dial my voice mailbox and wait: the first two messages are Lauryn; one's a casual catchup, before she was aware something was wrong, as though she somehow harbours a sixth sense for  _incidents_  happening. There's disconnect betwenen her perky voice from six hours ago and knowing what's happened since then.

The next message is apologetic-- "Oh, sorry-- you're at that talent show, aren't you?  _He_  said he was going-- just keep an eye on him for me, huh? Call me when you're done--"

The third is the one that throws me.

"Hi Dad! Alan bought me a new phone and I thought I'd ring you on it... Call me back, dad-- I miss you." Anna.

There's disconnect again, between my happy, adjusted sounding daughter, and dealing with this mess. I feel a pang of utter misery, thinking about the fact that she's probably better off where she is-- and a huge sense of failure at the idea that someone else is playing Dad and doing a better, more involved job than I could be. I'm pleased that she sounds happy, though there's the distance; I wish I could be hearing from her a week down the track, when all the chaos has settled, though that's just indicative that I still cannot deal-- the chaos never calms. It shifts. Even in its calm state, it's still chaos in some form. 

I suppose now was as good a time as any for her to have called me. I smile, and note down the number, I replay the message and look for subtle changes in her voice-- she sounds perky and older, more self-assured and teenage than she did the last time I spoke to her. 

I should have called her before now, I think guiltily, and hastily shift through the next two messages. 

The first is silence. Lauryn trying in vain to talk to me and hanging up. The second was nearly two hours after that, and it's Lauryn yet again. She sounds horrified, and I suppose she's aware, at that stage, of what's happened. 

"Jesus Christ, just call me, please?" she asks. It's rare to hear Lauryn plead like that for something, desperate and frantic and  _worried_. I can't think of what she might want from me, unless it's the same thing that Justice and everyone who works here wants: for me to magically perform the impossible and convince Gavin to not have his brother charged with assault. 

I click my phone off and drive home. I'll take care of this later, when I have a comfortable chair to relax in, after I've brushed my teeth, gargled some mouthwash, and had a very stiff drink.

 

 

Anna or Lauryn is the question when I have the glass of whiskey sitting next to me and the phone in my hand. 

And I don't know if I want the answer. 

If I call Anna, I'm afraid I could be interrupting something; there's a feeling of awkwardness, as though I'm imposing into someone else's family which happens to have  _my daughter_  living in it. I feel as though I've relegated Liz and Alan to some kind of outsider status in a way-- as though Anna has grown up and started her own family with other people, as though they could be amicable strangers whose lives I wish not to interfere with.

Maybe this is the way I cope with not seeing her every day. Maybe this is how I displace failure, with denial. 

I still wonder what it would have been like if everything had ended with a bang and not a whimper, with trauma and horror; a fire to rip through everything, razing all structure so it could be rebuilt. Awful in the throes of it, I suppose, but possibly with better results afterwards. 

Sometimes I wonder if I was too passive, either because I truly wanted the best for Anna, and for Liz, because I have such an overwhelming sense of failure about my relationships with them. Work consumed me, it took me away from them, and I was aware of it and trying to stop it from happening... but couldn't. The place, as everyone says, eats into you. 

And I wonder if that looks, from Anna's angle, if I don't care enough to fight for her. Maybe that's why...

I dial Lauryn's number, not looking forward to that conversation, either, but wanting to take my mind off my daughter. There I go again:  _denial_.

  
Lauryn sounds tired. 

"I was just about to switch my phone off," she says. "I was going to have an early night and then..." She sighs. I sigh. 

"I take it you heard what happened this afternoon?"

"I'm not sure," she tells me cryptic but sounding in no mood for games-- "I know what my client told me happened, but I also know that he has the tendency to minimise traumatic situations and to blame himself for things which--" She cuts herself off, desperately wanting confirmation. "How  _is_  the brother?" Her tone shifts into something hardened and unimpressed, she's  _meant_  to be concerned, in that same way as you are when you're hearing about an endangered species of regurgitating cockroach being made more vulnerable. You know you  _should_  care, even though when you think about it for less than a second when you have the time to formulate a professional, politically-correct response, you  _don't_.

"He was actually injured," I tell her. The idea of her assuming that Gavin slipped through with barely a scrape bothers me. "He's in the hospital wing with a possible fracture and a cut down his face and some bruising."

"Oh." She acknowledges it without sounding at all sympathetic. 

"He tells me that  _your client_  put him in that state."

Lauryn sighs again. "I'm not going to deny that-- but I was wondering if things were really as bad as how I'd heard about them over the phone--"

"Over the phone?"

"He's still being held in custody and since it happened, I've been up to my chin in calls from my lawyer clients, asking for records and trying to put together a case against him--"

"So they're hoping he drops the charges?"

"I can't tell you that," Lauryn says, and that's when it hits me. She's worried I'm going to compromise her clients' privacy. Yet she's compromised it before, and we're no longer merely talking shop and sharing anecdotes about our whacky clients, we're both pushed onto opposite sides of a raging battle which started long before either of us had met any of the players.

"I probably shouldn't have told you about how my client is," I admit quietly.

"Why?" I didn't expect her to sound this defensive. "Are you, in all honesty, backing him up on this?"

Okay. That was a slap in the face.

"No-- but telling you things about him and his condition might--"

"Compromise his privacy?" she asks acidly. "Hurt his  _feelings_? Help thwart his plan to drag his brother into that hellhole so he can do christ knows what to him?"

I take a hurried slurp of my drink. I hadn't been expecting this, and the confusion and the aggression from her  _stings_. "I don't know how you can work with him," she continues. "You  _know_  all this about him, and yet--"

"And yet he's still my client," I tell her angrily. "He's not just some  _freak_  I have  _access_  to for your clients' benefit."

"They wouldn't  _be_  my clients if it weren't for him," she snaps back. 

I'm trying to tell myself that this is just Lauryn, stressed, after spending the afternoon dealing with neurotic lawyers and time-dependent scenarios and multiple demands being made of her at once.

I can almost convince myself of that, but for the fact that I've sensed it creeping within her; a growing disgust at Gavin and what he represents, transferred over to me for being able to deal with him and to keep a straight face and the contents of my stomach where they belong. She's seen the end results; I haven't-- I've seen the schemer behind them. She doesn't know how I could work in this field and deal with men like Gavin; I don't know how she could spend all day talking to broken people and recovering and sorting through their nightmares.

Her clients are the ones deserving of sympathy. Mine, however, still deserve dignity, I think stubbornly. And that includes him.

We should be understanding one another; we were cut from the same cloth, educated in the same institution-- and for years we've seen eye to eye and our differing perspectives have complimented one another.

And somehow, it takes the impossible--  _Kristoph fucking Gavin_ , I think angrily-- to drive something between that and to warp it. And he has no idea about that.

I can hear her breathing on the phone, realising what she's just said.

"Maybe you need to think about that," I snap at her; another kneejerk reaction.

Her reaction, kneejerk or otherwise, is to slam the phone down, and leave me listening, in utter disbelief, to the echo of the dial tone. 

  


 

I put my glass down and look at the clock. It's far too late, and I'm in too awful a mood to try ringing my daughter now; that can wait.

I have a gnawing sense of failure and a feeling that whichever decision I make, it invariably turns out to be the wrong one.

 

 

 

 

"First item on the agenda--"

Waverley paces as he talks, I've noticed, his eyes peering into all of ours as he looks for response. 

It's seven, and the response is pretty much the same for the lot of us; it's early, the unit is still on lockdown, and none of us want to be here. My esteemed colleagues clutch cups of tea and coffee, desperate for something to kickstart their day and wake them up a bit. 

No one says anything. The sooner he's finished, the sooner we can return to our work.

The meetings are a new Waverley initiative, it seems; rather than the casual catchups at the start of each shift, we're now to have morning "touch base meetings" where the news of the day is distributed and discussed. Which would be nice if there was much news-- in all fairness, there seems to be plenty following the weekend-- but I can't help but think, as he paces and looks, paces and looks, that he likes the sound of his own voice and the idea of changing around procedure just to stamp his authority onto the place.

"Inmates on observations," he continues. "I'm trying to cut down on that."

There's a mixed reaction from everyone; some sighs, some groans, some upbeat cheerful murmurs. 

"We have a  _lot_  of people on obs right now, and it's bullshit," he says. "So from now on,  _I_  authorise the obs, and they don't happen unless there's good reason for them. So no placing Joe Bloggs on obs because you're worried he might get bored and start poking a few holes in himself with a number two pencil."

He's still pacing.

"What about suspected drug use?" Field asks.

"That-- now-- traditionally, we don't really have problems on this unit."

He's right for the most part, and that's arguably the only decent influence Damon Gant has had here; he runs the unit, and he doesn't approve of drug use for his own reasons. Of course, he could be a clean-as-a-whistle straight-edge type, more likely, he doesn't like the chaos of drug use: drugs cause people to behave unpredictably. Drugs curse their users with fearlessness and loose lips. Drugs cause political in-fighting and drama. Drugs relinquish the control of the place from people like Gant. 

Waverley looks at Field as though he's merely asked the question to play Devil's Advocate. "We have anyone suspected of harbouring contraband, you come and talk to me and I'll authorise a search; we take 'em down to the front, I sign the papers for someone to give 'em the work-through, their cell gets gutted, if there's anything of concern, they spend the day in iso. Simple." He gives a curt nod. "And trust me, no one will be wanting to be using if that's the consequence."

"What about the consequences for the  _staff_  who've been unfortunate enough to notice that they're affected?" Towne asks. "It's going to be  _wonderful_  being the lag who got someone worked over-- what happens when they're out of iso and you're still on shift and they want you dead?"

"We manage it as we would any other threat against staff." Waverley's response cuts Towne off at the knees. 

"We don't usually manage things with full cavity searches and isolation-- that's going to piss people off." It's Lily who makes that point, and I can see, in that moment, a bond has been forged between the two of them. 

"Now I can understand," Waverley says, "That the threat of attack  _scares_  some of you--"

"Damn right!" Hamm calls out from the back of the room. " _You_  see how you're feeling when two of those guys have you on the floor and a third's about to kick your head in." I'd always thought that Hamm and Waverley were friendly. This conversation has changed all that. Maybe these meetings weren't such a bad idea after all.

Lily glares at Waverley coldly; this is just another incident in the great epic tale of the two of them, beginning, apparently, with Waverley being mildly sexist about Lily's abilities as a female worker, peaking at a sexual harassment and bullying claim, and then petering out to a quiet, bitter disliking for one another which occasionally flares up from time to time over professional disagreements.

I could sooner imagine Lily handing her keys over to Furio Tigre and telling him where his enemies live-- and loaning him her car-- than I can imagine to her admitting to being scared of  _anything_ , particularly now. But there's an unquiet mumble amongst the staff about Waverley's new policy.

"So no obs run by us?" Caster asks.

"Exactly." Waverley nods, back in his place, returning to the strutting around. "And I've dropped down some of our regulars-- Kitaki's still on obs because of the shit he stirred up with that variety show stunt; Engarde's dropped down because he doesn't  _need_  to be on obs, ditto for Wellington, Tigre's off them completely, Banks is back on them after that bronchitis scare--"

He cuts himself off-- "Speaking  _of_  Banks, item number two-- transfers."

"What about Crescend?" Denham asks.

"No, we're not transferring him-- now-- as I was  _saying_ \--"

"Crescend needs to go on obs. After what happened on the weekend, he's convinced Gavin's assaulted his brother and he's been behaving erratically."

"Someone set him straight then." Waverley's dismissive.

No one's mentioned Gavin beyond this.

"Item number  _two_ ," Waverley says insistently-- "It's been brought to my attention that a number of our boys are ageing and pose few safety or escape risks, and in lieu of parole, there's been discussion around getting them shifted into minimum security facilities."

There's a collective gasp. We'd been campaigning for this for years, and finally--

"It makes financial sense," Waverley continues. "These guys aren't getting any younger, and it's costing the state-- and us-- more to keep them here and then to have to make allowances for them to get old and in need of more frequent health care. Now-- if we were to move them-- we'd be saving the equivilent of four fulltime staff wages a year;  _and_  we'd be freeing up beds." He looks around at all of us. As though the idea was his and not Parke's, and not the management before Parke's-- as though things suddenly  _happened_  because he was shifted into a deputy management role. 

"Obviously this won't apply to most of our high-risk, high-needs,  _un_ -cost-effective clientele-- but there could be a few contenders for more relaxed settings in a minimum security environment." 

"Moreau would have been one of them," Byrne says.

"Yep-- precisely." Waverley smiles at him. "I'm also thinking our Bankses and our Gants and men along those lines--"

"Callander shouldn't have been brought in here," Towne says.

"Would you prefer him in the community?"

"No-- but he doesn't function well and he's prey to all the other inmates. He was one for forensic psych."

"He's coping," Waverley says with a shrug. "He behaved himself over the weekend, no concerns there." He's effectively neutralised the conversation. 

"Anyway, it's something to think about."

There's another all-round murmur and he continues, snapping up our attention in the dying minutes he's got us in here for his touch-base meeting. "Item number three," he says brusquely-- "Kristoph Gavin."

Another murmur.

" _Ladies_  and gentlemen--" there's a funny look from him directed at Lily-- "Gavin is a  _problem_."

"Everyone wants to thump him after the variety show lockdown," Hamm grumbles.

"Precisely."

"He didn't do anything," Towne says. There's hesitance in his voice. "Sure, maybe he deserved what he got, but wasn't to blame for the lockdown. That was his brother-- and no one else knows this."

"Then there's the whole him wanting to press charges thing," Hamm continues--

"I need to have a talk with him," Waverley finishes up. "He should be coming out of the hospital wing today, so we can shift him elsewhere and deal with him. I've taken him off obs while he's up there-- he's got nurses keeping an eye on him when they're interacting with him and he's never been a self-harm risk or a threatened escape." This makes some degree of sense. 

"I will ask that none of you interact with him until I've sorted out this issue with the assault."

Most of the staff nod and murmur; it's not like they particularly enjoy interacting with him anyway. Responses to him from the staff seem to be indifference-- he's just another part of the prison population; fear-- he's  _different_  and unnervingly disturbing; or disgust. But the idea of me being included in that bothers me; why is Waverley wanting to limit our contact with him?

Control. By making himself Gavin's only point of contact with the outside world, he can influence him more easily. And that bothers me; Waverley quite openly dislikes him and I can't help but wonder how he plans to get Gavin to drop the charges against Klavier. Gavin isn't easily swayed, particularly not by people whom he has no respect for. 

"Any questions?"

I sit there, watching him carefully. In all the time I knew Waverley, I saw him as a gruff, conservative  _grouch_  with little empathy beyond his own worldview and with little understanding of the men he was dealing with here. But until recently, I'd never seen him as someone intentionally dangerous.

When he starts doing things like this, my perception shifts, and I'm about to open my mouth and ask if I'm  _also_  not to talk to Gavin, but I decide to remain silent. I can always still see him and plead ignorance because I'm not just another member of staff on the floor, I'm a  _specialist_ , and technically, I don't answer to him. Though I'm pretty sure I'm included with the others. 

He wants to control us, and now he wants to control  _him_. Somehow, I can't quite see that happening.

"No?" He stops where he's standing and looks around once more, ready to dismiss us for our day's work.

"What do we tell everyone else who asks where he is?"

"That it doesn't concern them." He doesn't want negotiation, and I'm reminded of Parke's request about keeping an eye on him. I just didn't think I'd be expected to so early into his ruling.

"Let's get out there." He smiles at us toothily, and I don't smile back

 

 

It's a regular, quiet morning from there on out. It's the kind of quiet which would make a person new to the job feel secure and happy, the sort of morning which would have them leaving their post and having a few drinks with their pals and saying "Nah, working in a prison ain't so bad-- it  _sounds_  like high drama, but it isn't."

After you've been here for a few months, you start to dread the quiet, because you wonder what else is happening.

  


I don't visit Gavin; I have no reason to, though an email sent to Waverley requests for him to let me know if he needs me for anything. Curiously, I get no response, leading me to suspect that his injuries were more painful than he suggested, and that he's sleeping off the effects of painkillers. 

Not having him on the unit makes for quiet, too, though there are, of course, undercurrents. 

 

 

My first scheduled appointment is with Plan. He's lead into the office and he smiles at me with his natural charm and charisma, still not completely dragged down by the system. I'm not completely sure why he's here.

"Anything you'd like to talk about?" I ask him. I'm keeping it neutral; perhaps he doesn't want to discuss much with me. He might be a joker, but he's surprisingly balanced-- he was an actor with a drug problem, his drug problem lead him to sell and mix with the wrong people, selling and dealing with the wrong people lead him to make stupid decisions, and one of those was to freak out and not do anything as one of his buyers fatally overdosed next to him.

It didn't help Plan that the buyer was a seventeen year-old runaway who was looking at getting into Plan's industry, a kid who was seduced by the illusion of glamour and adoration.

Plan, in spite of his surface drama and his history, actually poses a good chance of rehabilitation.

"Not really," he says awkwardly, and that's when the alarm bells go off in my mind. He says it as though he does want to tell me something, but fear or the inability to verbalise is getting in his way.

"I've been clean for about two months now-- I didn't use  _that_  much anyway-- and-- I dunno-- I'm... tempted." There's hesitation in his voice, and this is the moment where I'm pleased that Gant is on the unit and that Plan is one of his affiliates. 

"What's stopping you from going back there?" I ask him. Focus on the positives. Talk about the things he's not thinking and feeling and doing because he's being monkeywrenched by drug addiction. Talk about his clear skin and the fact that he can hold a conversation, that he can focus on goals for life on the outside, talk about not having to go through withdrawal. "Beyond the supply issues, I guess."

He raises an eyebrow, and something about the way his facial muscles move makes me wonder if he's already had cosmetic surgery of some sort. He'd only be young-- late twenties, early thirties. But I suppose in his industry, he's nearing his used-by date unless he becomes a household name or an icon. 

"Supply issues?" There's a smile lingering on his lips. "I can get anything I want, doctor." His eyes sparkle and I can easily imagine him flirting, giving come-hither glances and winning over just about anyone he wanted to. I remember Roy, and feel sorry for him.

"Not that I'm going to explain how," he continues smoothly-- "I mean, you're still a bug, you know?" He's still smiling; he, at least, understands my position and instead of being irritated about it or suspicious, accepts it. 

"I'm able to keep a confidence unless I believe it compromises the security or safety of the centre or anyone inside or outside it," I tell him. "Though if you were to discuss introducing contraband to the prison, that would be a legal matter, and I would have to mention that to the authorities."

 _Yet I stayed quite about Justice's revelation_. But Justice wasn't my client, and I wasn't certain if I could believe him. And--

"I get that," he says. "But... I don't know if I want to go back to  _using_  using, if you know what I mean." 

I'm not sure I do, and I shift in my chair awaiting an explanation.

 

"I mean using so much that I get into it hard and then start freaking out when I can't get any more. I mean using where I might do something that could fuck up my parole."

"You're unlikely to be paroled even if you're just casually using," I point out. I locate his file on my desk and flip it open, looking for the relevant legal information. "When are you up for parole, anyway?"

"Three years," he says. "Which still gives me time to fuck up and come good again, but I don't want to risk it." And that's when I note the fear in his voice; it's just a bare hint of a tone, and it makes me wonder what his motivation for using could be. 

"You seem to be quite certain about not wanting to go back to drugs," I say-- "So-- why would you  _want_  to? Why the consideration?" Perhaps it's a stupid question-- why  _would_  someone in his situation want to use drugs? Boredom, depression, a desire for an escape from the drudgery and brutality of the prison system, it isn't difficult to see the appeal. But Plan knows the risks involved, Plan has seen the other side of drug use. 

He shrugs. "Why does any one use?" he asks. "Seems like a good idea at the time."

"How would your--" I don't know what to call Gant and his crew-- " _friends_  feel about you returning to drugs?"

He sniffs. "I don't have friends in here," he tells me. "I have associates. Like everyone else does." He blinks. "Look, I knew Engarde from the outside, from years ago-- him and I ran in a few professional, shall we say, circles on the odd occasion." He pauses, looking scandalised, as though he might have said too much. I say nothing and let him continue. "That's the thing I don't get about Engarde-- he's not stupid and he knows this place even better than I do-- and well--  _look at him_ , hooking up with Gavin like that, like they're serious fuckbuddies and stuff."

I clear my throat. "Mr. Plan-- we're not here to talk about other inmates."

"Yeah," he says. "Okay-- but my point being-- other than Engarde, it's not like I really am  _in_  with any of these guys. I'm just not  _out_ , if you get what I mean."

"But these guys wouldn't be happy if you were using drugs, would they?"

"I don't think they'd care, really, just so long as they didn't get implicated and I didn't start getting a slice of the power on the unit."

He runs a hand through his fringe. "Look," he says quietly. "I've done stuff in here that I'm not proud of, and I've done stuff out there I'm not proud of, but everyone has and does to survive, that's all."

"That seems like a cryptic comment from you, Mr. Plan." I shift in my seat again and it creaks slightly. "Is there something  _else_  going on you'd like to talk about?"

"I just don't want to fuck up my parole," he says softly. "I hate this place, I'm over it. I'm not going to be able to live like this for the rest of my life-- I don't know how the lifers do it. I'd sooner off myself than--" A quick readjustment-- "I'm not suicidal or anything, but you know what I mean." 

I nod. I think I know what he means.

"If getting myself away from doing anything bad with drugs pulls me through, then sign me the fuck up," he says.

And I freeze, thinking about the death threats I've heard of and the recent structural changes in the prison. 

"Does someone  _else_  want you to do something which might ruin your chances of parole?" I ask.

"Perhaps." He looks around nervously. "And-- all that stuff about Engarde-- I was trying to tell you before--"

 

"Mist--"

 

"Lemme finish--" He cuts me off, waving his hand slightly. "I'm not a rat, but I owe him one," he says. "I know you guys do obs and stuff on people-- keep an eye on him, hey? Because while Gavin's off somewhere, he's going to be easier to take out." He blinks at me, as though he can't quite believe what he's said.

 

"Dare I ask what the favour was?" I ask.

  
"I don't think you'd want to know, and I don't think he'd want me to tell you," he says dismissively. "It was from the outside-- let's just say he stopped me from doing something stupid early on and he probably wouldn't even remember it."

"Was this back in your days as..." I'm trying to word it delicately-- "an  _entertainer_?"

He nods. "I owed him, and I guess I've paid forward the favour now-- just keep an eye on him and stuff," he says. He smiles at me then, as though he's remembered something. "He said you're better than that other shrink that was here, the one Rich blew under the desk." He smiles, his eyes sparkling again, ready to insinuate something, I suspect.

"Can we work out a strategy about the drug use temptation?" I ask him, deliberately changing the subject. "Is there something you can do to avoid using?"

"Get thrown in iso and searched, I suppose."

I frown. "So you're already in possession of contraband?"

"No," he says. "But I just worry, that if it's there, I'm going to snap and just use the stuff."

I sigh. "I can book you in with the drug and alcohol counsellor for a session tomorrow afternoon," I suggest, flicking through his file-- "You've worked with her before-- how was that--?"

"She was good," he says with a thoughtful nod. "I think I'd like that."

He looks at me steadily as he's about to stand up and leave. "I don't want to go back to using," he says. I can hear the desperation in his voice, and it frustrates and saddens me.

"I'd prefer to not see you using again," I tell him. "You've come a long way, and it was drugs which got you into this mess in the first place."

He nods at me, looking serious.

"I'm pleased you came to see me," I tell him. At least he's being straightforward and proactive about not making his life any worse. "Thankyou." 

I smile at him, and he offers me a slight, wavy sort of smile. As though he's nervous, terrified that he's going to fall off the wagon. I hope not, but his admission and nervousness is making me wonder something--

"Look," I tell him quietly. "You work in the mail room, don't you?"

He nods, looking guilty.

"Are you expecting a delivery of contraband?" I ask.

"We always get deliveries of contraband," he says.

"You know what I mean-- are you expecting something to arrive that's for  _you_?"

He looks relieved in a strange, dodge-the-question kind of way, and he shakes his head. "I want to  _avoid_  temptation, doctor," he says. "And I fuck my parole up if I get drugs sent in here, don't I?"

He's trying so hard to stay on the path. So I'm wondering what the hell is suggesting he'll stray from it.


	24. Power Issues

"So you've booked Plan in for D and A?" Waverley is in my office, uninvited and checking up on me, Plan's newly-adjusted file in his hands. He drops it to the desktop. "Fat lot of good that's gonna do that cocksucker."

"We give them the chance to come good," I say calmly. "And Plan's admitted already that he's scared of the temptation of returning to drugs."

"What do you think he'll do when he gets out? First thing, mark my words, his prison earnings go into a vein or up his nose."

Perhaps. Sometimes cynicism like Waverley's is mere practicality, it saves you from investing hope in people and being disappointed. And then feeling as though your work is meaningless. But during the process of rehabilitation, it seems miserably defeatist.

I shrug. "He wants to see the drug and alcohol counsellor, so I made him an appointment. He had a good working relationship with her last time; some good may come of it."

Waverley sniffs.

"What I'm interested in, though," I point out, "Is that I haven't heard any talk of drugs on the unit for what feels like a long time, and I've never seen the  _anticipation_  of drugs coming into the unit." And that's true; I've seen the after-effects, sure, but never heard about them coming in before they have.

"Maybe someone's looking at doing a deal with the Greens or someone over on another unit?" He sounds bothered and thoughtful as he looks at the plaster model of the cat on my desk with a frown. "It's possible-- I guess you'd then be looking at your players and your hustlers-- who else has the need or the means to get drugs onto the unit?"

"I was aware that Gant had ethical problems with drugs."

"That's right," Waverley says sharply, suddenly looking at me. I'm trying to read his expression; there's something I don't like there amongst the furrowed brow and the bristled moustache and the sharklike eyes. "Gant's had this unit  _clean_ ," he says. "Or he's scared the others into being quiet about their issues."

"Engarde and Wellington were known users for awhile," I point out. "And that was when they were both running with Gant."

Waverley frowns. "And both of them are in with Plan," he says sharply. "Wellington and Plan are friends, and Engarde and Plan were making pornos or something together on the outside, weren't they?  _And_  they were both users on the outside." 

Evidently, he's read everyone's files. The thought that knowledge is power occurs to me then; and part of Waverley's power is that it's subtle-- I suppose I hadn't expected him to know everyone's business so thoroughly.

He strokes his chin with a crooked index finger and begins pacing. I have the urge to stand up; for some reason, his refusal of a seat and the way he's upright while I'm seated makes me feel like there's a power imbalance here, and I don't like it at all. 

"What about Furio Tigre?"

"What  _about_  Tigre?" He snorts dismissively. "Guy's a fucking animal."

"Tigre was involved with drug dealing on the outside, apparently."

"Tigre's Gant's right-hand man," Waverley says. "He ain't that fucking stupid."

"Behr?"

"You're shitting me, right?" A filthy sort of chuckle comes out of him then. "Behr stayed the hell away from the drug trade-- he didn't like drugs because of the power issues and the fact that they screwed with people."

I nod. It makes perfect sense, and possibly explains the Gant-Behr connection. 

"What about the Kitakis?"

Waverley looks, for a moment, as though he's considering that, and remains silent. When he doesn't shoot down the suggestion, I realise I might have figured it out. And I noticed the way Engarde was sitting near them the other morning in the breakfast hall.

"Suppose Engarde wants Plan to do something and he was planning on paying him with drugs?" I ask, thinking aloud. "And suppose he's sorted out with the Kitakis to bring in contraband and--"

"Engarde wants Gant taken out," Waverley says, considering it, the conspiracy hatching in his mind. "And he wants Plan to do it."

Which isn't entirely out of the realm of possibility, except for one thing.

 

"Why the hell would Plan kill Gant?" I'm remembering Redd White's futile attempt. I'm remembering the failed execution. I'm thinking about Gant's hold on the place, his access to inside information, his likely connection with staff and his influence on people like Tigre. Trying to kill Gant would be suicide.

 

"Simple," Waverley says, his eyes brightening with a strange kind of fervour-- "He's a junkie. He'll do anything for a hit."

  
"Even though he's said he doesn't want to go back to using?"

"That's just horseshit." The idea has seeded itself in his mind and won't be swayed. "That's just him covering his ass so he can sue us later for providing inadequate treatment for him to kick drugs. He's doing this so his drug charges-- the ones he'll get when he's found using and dealing and bringing the stuff in-- get slapped on him and when they fuck up his parole." There's a nasty, sarcastic whimper in his voice. "It's all _your fault_ ," he moans melodramatically. "For not stopping me from sticking that needle in my arm or that shit up my nose." 

I don't like what he's implying, and I don't think Plan's actually that devious. But trying to argue that is pointless; to try and dissuade him from the idea that Plan is anything but a schemer and a junkie willing to work the system as best he can is futile. 

I decide to attack his logic from another angle, and possibly learn something about him in the process.

"Why would Engarde want him to kill Gant, then?"

If he has no idea, I'll be able to write him off as clueless and tripping on power and blindsided by Gant and his crew. If he simplifies things, I can know that he at least doesn't know what's going on and possibly cannot be blamed for that-- sure, he might be  _stupid_  and  _oblivious_ , but neither of those necessarily translate into  _corrupt._

He looks at me thoughtfully. "I have no idea," he says in monotone. "They used to get on well until Gavin came back on the unit from his nice long stint in solitary."

 _Getting on well_. That's one way of describing it, I suppose, but in Waverley's simplistic view of these men, perhaps that's all it is.

"There were, apparently, significant issues between Gant and Engarde," I suggest, failing to reveal the truth of them. I can't: I'm not at liberty to. For what feels like the fifty millionth time since I began working here, I find myself frustrated by an inmate's lack of disclosure of victimisation.

"Yeah," Waverley says. "Gant pulled the little fucker into line." He sniffs again, and, irritatingly, starts pacing. "Remember when Engarde got here? He was a mouthy little prick. Complained about everything, treated the staff like shit, and would cut himself up or OD when things didn't go his way." 

He tells me as though I wasn't trying to work with Engarde-- who, admittedly, was a difficult case. I remember the self-harming and the rudeness and the drug abuse and the suicide attempts-- but as with all the others, he still had a right to psychiatric assistance and some dignity.

"He's a manipulative fucker, too," Waverley says. "I still think he was fucking around on purpose so he wouldn't get the chair. Or the noose. Or whatever-- he wanted to be too ill to kill and all that." 

"He was still abusing drugs and causing problems after he was spared the death penalty."

"Yeah, that's because the sorry sack of shit realised that he had nothing to live for." Waverley's face hardens and he suddenly realises something. "And don't tell me it's Gavin now," he snaps. "That's disgusting."

I raise an eyebrow. "I wasn't going to," I tell him smoothly. "But I do wish to point out that Engarde has significant mental health issues, has been diagnosed with a personality disorder, and that the drug and self-harming issues are all part of that."

 

Waverley chuckles, heavy and low. "Diagnosis," he says in disbelief. "The ultimate con job." 

  
I ignore that comment. "And," I continue, "From my understanding, Engarde has reason to believe-- valid or otherwise--" Though I'm increasingly leaning towards it being perfectly valid-- "That someone from the Gant faction wants to kill him."

"Isn't that paranoia or schizophrenia or bipolar or something?" Waverley asks, rolling his eyes. "Can't you give him meds for that?" 

I'm annoyed that the more I'm talking to him, the less I like him. While Parke isn't overly enthusiastic about diagnoses, and while he likely doesn't believe in some of the inmates having mental health issues, he's never quite dismissed me and shown such a lack of knowledge on the matter like this.

"So see?" he asks when I don't bite-- "He wants Gant dead. He'll get Plan to ice him. Simple." 

He stretches, as though he's about to head off, and I probably should let him go but something compels me to argue. 

"Waverley," I tell him. "He was in with the Gant faction." 

He turns around and smiles at me. I'm not quite sure what was so amusing. "I know he was," he says. "Gant actually kept him busy and put him to use, from my understanding."

"What do you mean by that?" I can't hide the suspicion in my voice and I really don't like that smile.

"He got him off drugs and apparently Engarde's people skills had him negotiating the peace with everyone else on the unit," he says with a shrug which is too casual and which arouses my suspicion, making me watch him carefully for any sign of betrayal and admission.

"Dunno what he was doing, personally-- I can  _guess_  given what he was busted doing to Wood-- but whatever it was, it worked, didn't it?" His voice hardens and his jaw clenches. "And then he throws a hissy fit about something, and he's moved in with Gavin, and suddenly everything's blown to shit and it's world war three."

"Perhaps Engarde's compliance with Gant wasn't through respect but fear?" I suggest softly. "Perhaps it was always like that, right from the beginning."

"Exactly! Which is why he'd want to kill him. Revenge."

 

"But if he's that terrified of Gant and knows what he's capable of, wouldn't he realise that it would be pointless trying to get  _Plan_ , of all people, to try and kill him?"

 

I'm watching Waverley's face grow red and hot with frustration. He's getting sick of this conversation, or confused-- or both. 

"Fine," he snaps. "I'll drag 'em in, get their rooms gutted, have 'em searched."

  
"On what grounds?" I ask.

"Suspicion of harbouring contraband."

 

"And if there is none?"

  
"There's  _got_  to be contraband if all this is happening," he says, already off on a tangent and having decided what's happened. "The question is just which  _one_  of them has got a bag of powder stuffed in their mattress or up their ass."

He looks stern and powerful, as though he's now a man on a mission.

"This could have repercussions for Plan," I point out vaguely. "If he knows something about contraband and a bunch of people get searched and their rooms are raided, someone's going to know that Plan talked to someone."

Then Waverley says something that makes me dislike him a lot more. 

"That's why we sew the seeds of doubt," he utters with a grin. "We confuse 'em-- we give 'em reason to believe that they can't be sure  _who_  squealed."

"Technically no one squ--"

"This is about safety and security of the unit," he tells me in a final sort of way. "I'm not having drugs on the floor."

And he leaves then, stomping out like a little general, his eyes full of purpose and his walk intimidating and powerful.

I feel a bit sick in my stomach, even after he's gone. Inexperience, a power trip and either stupidity or corruption-- I'm not sure which and I never found out-- can be a lethal combination.

 

 

 

It's mid-afternoon coffee break time and the supposedly calm day has been turned upside down with Waverley's insistence on finding contraband. Room searches have been conducted while everyone was attending work duties, and seemingly randomly, inmates were called out of work to meet with Waverley and Towne for questioning and searches.

It's after three and I'm finally getting my caffeine fix.

Lily and Hamm are in the staff room with me, burdened with the fun job of sifting through and categorising bagged contraband found in the rooms during the search. The staffroom table is littered with little plastic evidence bags marked with room numbers and names-- inside, there are shivs and there are items of suspicion. 

"Haven't seen one of these in a while," Lily says of a small disposable camera.

"We found that in Gant's room-- prob'ly a memento from von Karma." 

"A camera?" I ask. I haven't seen a disposable camera like that since I was a kid.

"Make the right adjustments and that baby's a taser," Hamm explains. I nod. It seems fitting.

"Where are all the drugs Waverley was looking for?" I can't help but ask, diverting the conversation away from the distraction. What's painfully obvious to me right now is that none of the contraband seized appears to be of the drug variety. Amongst the bags of broken glass and sharpened toothbrushes and a pair of handcuffs-- where the  _hell_  had a pair of handcuffs been found?-- and pencils with razors inserted into the sides-- I can't even see a crudely made bong. "I thought there were drugs on the unit."

"I'm guessing they're  _on_  someone, if you get my gist," Hamm says.

Lily wrinkles her nose and continues sorting through the bags. "Or  _in_  someone." She pauses, looking at a rope made out of torn sheets, and rolls her eyes, dropping it to the floor. "Half this stuff can just get binned," she says dismissively, and then turns back to me. "Honestly, though, this place had been quiet in terms of drugs for awhile now. Unless they're trying to get something through one of the other units, I don't know why Waverley'd think there are drugs moving around here."

"Unless he suspects one of the staff," Hamm pipes up.

Both of them start laughing.

"Yeah, I can really see someone being stupid enough to do something like that," Lily says. "Lose your job, get charged with drugs, wind up over in the pussy unit. Fun times ahead." She looks thoughtful. "He's pulled in a right random crew to get searched, though-- I think he was just wanting particular items of contraband removed from  _certain people_." Her voice has a dark tone of suspicion in it. "I could almost  _hug_  Engarde for turning up nothing." She's smiling. 

"Unless he has a couple of grams of something on him." Hamm is cyncial. 

"I don't think he does." Lily sounds confused. "Engarde wouldn't have drugs  _on_  him-- he'd have used anything he got his hands on." She looks puzzled. "A few months ago, he'd have been snorting laundry powder in an attempt to get high--"

"He's just staying off it 'coz Gavin's coming back."

"Hmm… I'm not sure. Gavin's still not on the unit yet." She rubs under one eye distractedly. "If I get time this afternoon, I'll go up and see him--" She casts her gaze towards me. "Have  _you_  heard anything about when he's back?"

"Nothing. I was going to ask you if you knew anything."

"I haven't been advised," she says. "He was out like a light when I saw him last."

 _Or he was pretending to be._  I'm not sure how I bring up that Gavin pulled that on me when I saw him and it resulted in me being  _kissed_. So I don't mention it: I've already written it off as a Gavin-related oddity like all the others before, and I suppose it doesn't bother or surprise me that much. Not  _really_ , I think, even though my body clenches up involuntarily when I think about that moment.

  
"I wonder if he's gonna pull a Wellington and try to stay there as long as possible?" Hamm asks. 

Lily shrugs. "Not his style, really. At least he avoided having his stuff gone through and the ever-joyous cavity search."

"He doesn't use, though," Hamm says incredulously.

"Yeah, I realise that." Lily's voice is hard and unimpressed. "But--" She cuts herself off-- "Gant doesn't use, either, and he got the works." 

"Yeah?" Hamm's surprised. At least all three of us seem equally confused by Waverley's methods and rationale.

 

 

 

* * *

  
"So what the fuck's going on, doc?"

Crescend sits opposite me, with his arms crossed and a surly look on his face. 

"Maybe you could tell me?" I smile at him, easygoing and friendly; I'm used to Crescend's moodiness and irritation with the world by now. It practically passes for ordinary conversation, and he's understandably still pissed off about what happened at the variety show.

"No," he sniffs, "I think  _you_  can tell  _me_."

"I'm not quite sure what you're talking about."

"This thing Waverley's got going on about there being drugs on the unit-- more specifically, about  _me_  being a likely user of said drugs." He snorts. "Everyone knows I don't touch that shit; I'm probably the cleanest person in here."

He's right about that, and his records suggest as much, too. And I'm waiting for the penny to drop:  _was_  he suspected of harbouring drugs? Or did he somehow get caught up in Waverley's keep-everyone-guessing strategy?

"Do you feel that you were wrongly accused of using drugs?" I ask him. Still keeping my voice even, I'm waiting for him to tell me. I don't know everything that happens on the unit, and I'm not supposed to know about this, either.

"Well I don't think my room got pulled apart and I got a cavity because Towne's looking for a date this Friday night." He's smiling at me, unamused. "Which makes me think that something's going down." He leans in and stares at me, his blue eyes sharp and intense. "Did someone get some drugs in on the weekend?" 

 _Possibly._  I wouldn't be surprised; the Variety Show attracted a lot of visitors, and there's only so much the desk jockeys can do. It wouldn't be too difficult, I assume, for someone to manage to slip  _something_ into the prison with an event like that happening. 

"I don't know." And I don't; I still can't work out what Waverley's trying to achieve. 

"Well I know this much," Crescend snaps, "I'd be a fucking idiot to mess with that stuff-- I got a call from my lawyer this morning-- he's gonna see if they can push my parole forwards 'coz my old man's dying of cancer-- if I've been caught using, dealing, moving-- anything like that-- there's no way I'm gonna even  _see_  him."

"I'm sorry," I offer weakly.

He looks disgruntled. "It serves him fucking right," he says sharply and unexpectedly. "He got told years ago that he was drinking himself into an early grave, and he kept on at it." He pauses. "He probably kept laying into my ma' as well even though he knew that was bad for  _her_  health. Stupid prick."

He tosses his hair angrily, running his fingers through it and attempting to slick it back. I blink: this is the first time I've recieved any sort of background information on the Crescend household, and I don't know what to say. I'm not sure if his anger is ambiguous, if there's sorrow and fear of never seeing his father one last time, if there's regret at winding up in here. There likely could be; Crescend just finds it easier, it seems, to mask everything with rage. Including his concern for other people.

"Did your mother see your performance on the weekend?"

 

"Yeah," he says. "I saw her back there for a bit; she looked like she was gonna cry." I get the feeling that he wants to talk about the variety show, with the way there's that flash of  _something_  across his face, then. 

  
"Maybe she thought the song was for her--" He pauses, playing with a strand of hair which has fallen at the side of his face. 

" _Was_  the song for her?"

I know what the answer is going to be. But I have to ask anyway.

"I guess parts of it could have been, maybe." His response is vague, and I think that's all I'm going to get from him until his face hardens again. "But it was really for  _him_."

"Klavier Gavin?"

He nods. "Except he never heard it because he followed that son-of-a-bitch brother of his outta there and then fuck knows what happened." He's no longer leaning back, looking at me, a smartass with an anger problem, but a man truly incensed. "If he'd fucking  _stayed_  and  _listened_..." 

I suck in a breath through my teeth. "The song, if I understand it properly, was about  _revenge_ , Mr. Crescend."

He chuckles dryly. "You're smart," he sneers. "Ain't no getting shit past  _you_."

I know all this. And I suspect that I know what's coming. This discussion is mere formality and confirmation.

"Am I correct in assuming that you are planning on seeking  _revenge_  upon Kristoph Gavin for what he did to his brother? The things you've mentioned to me before in our sessions?"

"I plead the fifth." His teeth are gritted as he speaks. "But it isn't just Gavin who did stuff, is it?" He looks at me intently again. He  _knows_ , and he's waiting for me to make a move.

I don't say anything. 

"Don't look at me like that, doc," he snaps. "I know you know, too. I've done my years as a detective-- I was pretty fucken good at my job-- there are a  _number_  of guys in here who've done stuff to Klavier that they should be sorry for." He sniffs. "This place has a way of making people into animals," he says. "People get used to doing things, it shifts their perspective, doesn't it?" He's speaking with utmost disgust. "And I know I'm no angel-- I killed a man. I got a kid sent to juvie to have christ knows what happen to him because I panicked and that smartass little lawyer brought me down in court." He inhales deeply, and his eyes close for a moment. "But seriously, doc, there's some shit I will  _never_  get used to or complacent about. You can add rape and torture to that list." His eyes narrow and he sniffs distractedly. "I guess there's one difference between me and the kinds of people who were  _already comfortable_  with that shit before they got locked up, isn't there?" There's a particularly disgusted note of loathing when he makes that suggestion.

"Do you know something about what happened to Klavier Gavin?" I ask slowly. I almost want him to admit that he doesn't, because it means less complication-- maybe if he was coming out with this while Parke was here, it would be different, but-- 

"I know what every other asshole around here knows," he says. "You asked any of  _them_  about it?"

He wants to talk. But he doesn't want to be the delivery boy. 

"Mr. Crescend," I say cautiously-- "We're not here to discuss other inmates."

He eyes me warily. "Well I know that Callander fuck didn't do it, and I know that certain people who  _did_  have certain friends in high places so expecting the authorities to do anything about it is like expecting the kitchen to provide gourmet home-cooked meals or some shit." 

He laughs airily, taking in my shocked expression. "Are you stunned because you truly believe there's no corruption 'round these parts or can't you get over the fact that I'm not as dumb as you thought I was?" 

"Mr. Crescend," I say quietly. "If you're making allegat--"

"I know what I know," he says. "And I'm not saying shit coz I'm not a rat." He smiles then, deathly serious. "All you need to know is that justice, one way or another, will be served."

What else do you know?" I'm unamused, and I feel a sting of betrayal. I always thought I had a reasonably good relationship with Crescend, one where he could tell me things. One which wasn't about half-truths and speculation and playing mind games like this seems to be.

Then again, I never thought Crescend was one to seriously consider revenge. His reluctance to talk to me is dangerous, because it means he's planning on dealing with matters by himself. 

"I know this drug thing stinks of a beatup," he says. "It's like a police lineup," he continues. "You grab the guy you're pretty sure did it, you grab some who might have been involved, you grab some who had absolutely nothing to do with whatever shit went down. And then some fucker gets to finger one of 'em and-- well, things get a bit different in here." He snorts. "There's no witnesses, no one's talking, no one recognises anything, so they get a bunch of schmoes like me involved and get us pissed with whoever the cocksucker was who brought the drugs in and got us all searched."

He looks at me again, like he's nutted it out and he's gambling on me agreeing with him. "Maybe you need to tell your pal  _Waverley_  that if he knows something no one else does about drugs on this unit, then maybe he needs to go talk to the man who usually stops the drugs making it in here."

And he smiles at me, satisfied. He thinks we're on the same page. 

We are, but it would be unprofessional of me to let him know that.

"Is there anything else you'd like to talk about?" I ask him.

"Yeah, there is," he says. "But it's nothing you're going to want to talk about with me." 

I know him well enough to know that he wants information.

"Is this about other inmates?"

"You got it."

"Well, we can't talk about that," I tell him with a slight smile. "Thanks for not pushing."

He leans back in his seat and smiles at me, and I'm rewarded with a flash of sharp teeth for a fleeting moment. I suspect, more than anything, he wanted somewhere to vent about the perceived injustices in the system rather than anything else. But at least it's not any kind of emergency, I suppose. 

"How's the medication working out for you?" I ask him, realising that our time is coming to an end.

He shrugs. "Okay, I guess," he says. Not doing any harm at least."

I suppose that's a positive.

  
When he leaves, I send off notification that I want him placed on observations. I feel as though I've just stared into the calm of a turgid and most unpredictable storm.

 

 

 

 

"There were no drugs found anywhere," Waverley tells us in the staffroom. "Didn't quite expect that, actually."

There's a strange tension in the air, and I notice Lily looking down into her cup of coffee. She seems quieter than usual, hot-faced and bothered by something, with a stewing kind of anger which I am yet to learn the reason behind. Waverley notices it, too.

"Aw, brighten up, Lily," he says in a sickly sweet drawl. "I've done your case notes for the day, it's a quiet unit-- what could be bothering you?"

"Something's off about this," she says. I show my solidarity with a nod. 

"Something's always up with these clowns," Waverley sneers. "I'm willing to bet we'll have something showing up in the next few days-- so it's simple." He looks around the staffroom to address the rest of us; Towne, Caster, Byrne, Denham and I-- "We just  _wait_  for some indication of drug use to rear it's ugly little head, and we swoop then."

"We can't do this random full-body search thing again for another week," Towne says gloomily. "So we just have to wait."

"Sure we can." Waverley shrugs. "I know it's a mess getting the staff coordinated, I'll just put more people on."

"We can't because it's the  _law_ ," Towne says tightly. "No more than one random search is permitted per inmate per week. Unless we've got reasonable grounds-- and right now-- we don't have shit."

Waverley's face drops then; evidently, he's forgotten. "So we  _find_  reasonable grounds," he says angrily. "We do over the entire unit until something comes up. And we keep a close eye on Wellington, Plan and Engarde." He perks up. "We still haven't nabbed Wellington," he says, "Coz we did Gant and Tigre and Plan-- that was the group covered-- so--"

I'm watching him closely-- he's starting to falter, to carefully sidestep around the mess that he's created, the unsuccessful attempt at finding contraband. He's ordered it, so he wants to turn up something, otherwise it's his pride and his ability as a manager at stake. I wonder what Parke would be saying if he saw this happening.

"We'll find something," he says. "Hell, we  _did_  find other varieties of contraband, didn't we, Lily?"

She nods, but doesn't say anything, and I wonder about something. 

"Has a nail file turned up yet?" I ask.

Everyone looks at me, and I explain myself. "I've heard through some of the inmates that Wellington had a nail file on him."

"That's just Engarde wanting attention and for Wellington to get in trouble," Towne says. "And we searched Gant's-- and Wellington's-- room-- they're sharing now-- and nothing came up." He chuckles. "Engarde  _was_ pretty pissed off that Wellington didn't get subjected to a search, actually. But it's just petty rivalry." He shrugs. 

"So what happens when--"

Hamm is cut off as the lights go out. 

It's a snap, a little crackle of something electrical somewhere beyond the staff room, and then we're all shrouded in darkness. The televisions, their energy sourced from another service, apparently, remain on, giving the staffroom a slight blush of white-grey light but little else. The screens show very little; it seems the darkness is far-reaching and stretches out onto the unit.

"What the  _fuck_?" Waverley opens the door and we rush out, knowing the distance to the door onto the unit so well that we don't need light-- to see-- or try to see-- the damage.

Half the unit glows with light; probably because the lighting is powered by another generator. I can hear shocked screams and laughter breaking out amongst the inmates on the floor, and then Waverley barking into his radio. "Code Purple, A-Wing, East side... Calling for backup, I repeat, backup required--"

He looks around the unit and then back at us, a silhouette made so by the bright light streaming out from the west end of the unit and the still-functional laundry and bathroom-- "Okay--  _LOCKDOWN_!"

A few of the inmates had been peering at us curiously, trying to work out how we planned on resolving the situation, hiding amongst the shadows with a kind of glee.

"Backup on its way," someone announces over the radio, and then the unit is a hum of activity as inmates are escorted back to their rooms.

 

"What the fuck gives, man?" Crescend doesn't look pleased, and I catch a glimpse of wild long hair flipping around as he shifts away from Hamm, pissed off. "First the searches, now this fucking crap--"

  
"Dunno what happened, either," Hamm tells him gently. "Might be a safety issue though."

 

"Oh yeah? Safety  _this_ , dog." I assume what follows is a raised middle finger.

  
Somewhere in the background an alarm sounds, different to a duress and different to an escape alert; I haven't heard a system failure alarm in a long time.

"What the fuck happened?" There are new faces on the scene, barely visible in the darkness, and they sound just as startled and confused as we all are. The golden stream of a flashlight moves across the ground and there's a clank of a door being shut and locked. The new guys disperse, trying to round up the inmates.

"It's that fucking electrical system," Towne grumbles when he arrives back at the front of the staff room. There's a hum and an awkward flicker, as though the electrical system has overheard his complaint and decided to work again, as the light flash and flicker, stuttering back on as a door is closed over the other side of the wing.

"And  _now_  it decides to work."

Hamm comes running over towards us. "Rolla threw a cup of water at the wall in the phone room," he tells us. "He and the girlfriend had a fight and he just did it-- there was no malice there--"

"It's this stupid system, though," Towne mutters. "I'm glad no one  _intentionally_  fucked with it, but if they had, and we didn't get that sorted quickly, we could have had--"

He doesn't continue the sentence. Lily, whose presence I'm not aware of until she speaks, pipes up. "Classic riot conditions," she says.

"Yeah." Towne sounds uncomfortable. " _That_."

Waverley walks over to us. "Okay," he says. "I opted  _not_  to send Rolla to iso, because it's late and I want to go home and now thanks to that dickwipe, I've got a mass of paperwork to go through-- but he's sharing with Stickler, so that's more hell than isolation could give him anyway." His voice is a sneer. "We'll feed them in their rooms; dinner should be just about organised anyway thanks to the kitchen crew--" He looks at us expectantly. "Any questions?"

 

"Who's Rolla?" I ask.

  
"Ahh--" There's  _another_  sneer in Waverley's voice. "Didn't Parke send him down to you because he was too busy chasing up paperwork of his  _own_?"

No one says anything. Waverley's never done this until now, publicly smeared Parke's name like that, and it puts me on-edge and ready to retaliate. But I wait.

"Rolla-- Rocky Rolla-- dumbfuck kid who got done drink-driving and went through a crowded playground upstate. He killed a little kid, injured a couple of others-- he's gonna be  _real_  popular in here."

I cringe, having considered the same thing myself. Those who hurt children come in behind the eight-ball-- perhaps the lack of intention might spare this Rolla, whoever he is. 

"First time in, but he refused psych assessment-- no history of mental health or medical issues; just has that irrepressible boyish belief that he's twenty-one and invicible." He smirks. "We'll see how he's feeling about that in a few weeks' time."

I hate the sneer in his voice. 

"Perhaps Parke didn't think I needed to know about him?" I suggest. After all, there are dozens of men on the unit I'm largely unfamiliar with. 

"Perhaps Parke was too busy worrying about his own shit," he says dismissively.

It looks like we're about to disband and begin reports and mealtimes. Lily senses it too; she nudges me in the back and says in a low voice-- "Can I have a talk to you after this?"

I nod. 

Waverley notes her standing next to me, and looks in the direction of the kitchen. "Lily-- you can go oversee the meal preparation," he says quickly-- "the rest of you, follow her direction-- and I'm gonna do this fucking incident report." He doesn't say anything, but I get the impression he wants me to accompany him.

 

 

Waverley's tension is like blood in the ocean; it's dangerous in the way that if it's smelt by predators, it will cause a frenzy. Tension suggests panic, injury, a lack of control, something chaos thrives upon in here. 

Waverley seems to have the idea that authority gifts him with the ability to keep everything under control. He barks orders at people, he changes procedures to suit him, he changes and shapes the system to put his own mark on it.

But watching the frantic way he flaps and flails around after the power has come back on, I realise something: he's no Parke. 

I retreat to my office, grabbing my keys from the drawer and getting ready to leave. I can hear the door open only a second after I've closed it-- it's Waverley, red-faced and angry, beads of sweat collecting around his moustache. 

"This is  _fucked_ ," he growls. "This power system bullshit-- I will fucking  _kill_  Parke for not getting that fixed before he left."

I don't say anything, but turn around and raise an eyebrow. I don't want to be seeing this; I want to go home; I want to ring my daughter. I want, strangely enough, Lauryn to ring  _me_ ; I want to be away from all of this. I neither want nor need to watch Waverley spiralling out of control.

"Shouldn't he?" His voice rises with the desperation of a man wanting to be vindicated. "Instead,  _he_  gets to piss off somewhere to do--" --and a darker note creeps into his voice. I'm forcing myself to remain calm despite having the urge to push him out of my office. "Actually--" he continues nastily-- "A little birdy told me he's not taking a vacation so much as sorting his way through a messy fucking divorce." 

I hate the way he sounds so triumphant, I hate him for his pettiness and his schaudenfraude in that moment, I hate him for being so miserable as to find something like that  _amusing_ \-- 

"Glenn, is there something you needed to discuss with me?" Perhaps I should give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe there  _is_. My conscience couldn't live with it if there was an I just walked away.

"Yeah," he says. He sounds serious, his voice is heavy. "I wanna know what they're going to do  _next_. First we have all the drugs coming in here and--"

"Drugs?" I ask, straightening up as I say the word. "No one found any."

"I know that," he spits out. "But there will be drugs coming in here, mark my words-- if they're talking about drugs and there are no drugs, the only logical explanation is that there  _will_  be drugs."

I look at him carefully. His face betrays something, as though he's holding some cards to his chest at the moment, and I'm thinking on my feet.

"Unless," I suggest slowly, "The distraction of a drug raid is a cover for something else going on."

"I know  _everything_  which is going on in this unit," he snaps at me, his face growing red again. "Except what's going on with this drug bullshit." He stops himself and glares at me. "Actually--  _you_  were the one who told me about Plan saying he was going to use again-- how can I tell you're not fabricating bullshit to get me in the shit?"

If I was corrupt, and if I was that invested in bringing Waverley down, perhaps I would do something like that. 

"You can read over Plan's report," I tell him testily. "And my referral for him to see the D&A worker."

"And Plan couldn't have fabricated that shit just to get-- I dunno?"

"I noted down what I observed," I tell him calmly, "As well as what Plan told me-- I believed him to be genuinely concerned about his potential for drug abuse. He told me nothing more than that."

"Why didn't you  _make_  him?" he asks angrily.

"I can't force people to talk."

"You seem to get enough out of Gavin, don't you?" He glares at me again, as though that's some part of another conspiracy. "Yet you weren't able to make the prick drop charges against his brother, were you?" There's that smugness in his voice again. 

 

"No," I say quietly. "I wasn't." I pause, gathering my thoughts. "And it wasn't my intention to do so, either. I'm neither a prison worker nor a legal advisor."

  
"We could all get in trouble for what Gavin's threatening," he says. "Ever thought about  _that_?"

"It isn't my concern, to be honest." I grab my keys and turn to stand up. Waverley is still glaring at me, his mouth twisting into an angry frown.

"You were the one person who could have turned him around, you know," he growls at me. "And you  _didn't_."

I shrug, ever-so-slightly, and begin walking to the door. I'm shaking; the way he's speaking to me is verging close to threatening; I'm not sure why I have a sense of fear at the moment, but it's there, and working in here has taught me to not discount gut instinct.

"And bribery and negotiation on a sticking point with Gavin couldn't have helped you?" I ask sweetly.

His frown deepens. My sense of impending danger hasn't abated.

"When Smeer gets back," he says in a low, ferocious sort of undertone-- "You're  _gone_." 

I step back. "Excuse me?" I ask.

"I have connections,  _Doctor_. Don't think that your fancy degree and the fact that you've been here since the dawn of time are gonna get you any favours-- I know what you set up, I know what you did to Dr. Smeer, and I can see what you're doing to me-- and your days are numbered, you miserable prick."

I've been threatened before, but never by staff. I'm shaking now, but there's no pressing a duress alarm, no expecting team members to come to my aid. Waverley is crazy, perhaps, but not stupid. The stress of the workplace has gotten under his skin and raced through him like a toxin, but it likely hasn't made him lose all sense enough to throw a punch at me.

He's just very, very dangerous in a more subtle way.

I can feel my jaw clenching and a realisation that I need to be out of here  _and fast_ , I need to go home, I need to think about this situation, I need to gather my resources and work out what I'm going to do and how I can not be left alone with Waverley again like this. 

"Glenn," I tell him quietly. "I need to go home." 

He forces himself into calm and stops; his mouth opens as though he's about to bark another threat at me, but he doesn't say anything.

I walk past him and hold the door open for him to leave.

I knew things were bad, but I never saw that coming a mile away.

I wonder what the rage is hiding.

 

 

 

So perhaps my little run-in with Waverley scrambled me somewhat. 

I leave the building, exiting via the far end, realising that I've left myself a hell of a long walk back to my car. 

I don't care. Maybe I need the walking time, the space to gather my thoughts properly and work out a logical solution to this mess. 

I've worked with people who were clueless and incompetent, whose workplace procedures and attitudes I haven't agreed with. I've worked with people who make no effort to hide the fact that they dislike me and my branch of science. I've worked with the manipulators and the possibly corrupt, I've been accused of things before, but they've been minor in comparison-- incorrect diagnoses, incorrect treatment, misinterpretation of behaviour.

I've never been threatened. 

 _Perhaps_ , I think, as I exit through the heavy doors at the end of the unit, Waverley truly does believe that I'm in with Gavin and I'm being puppeteered by him. Surely that  _would_  arouse such fear in a man like Waverley who likes his order-- but-- it also makes Waverley a hypocrite of the highest order given his own interaction with Gant.

 _But Gant was searched today_... Did Waverley believe Gant had drugs on him? Of course not. Maybe he wanted to "suspect" Gant because it made the whole thing look more fair and random. 

Even though no drugs were found. 

I pace along angrily, walking through the side airlock and punching in a keycode angrily, waiting for the soft  _click_  of the door to sound so I can twist the handle and step out. It's the staff exit, back from the old days when we used to have a parking bay outside to drive inmates to court and other prisons and on leaves-- back in the days when we housed half the population and before the place expanded. Just before I started here, everything changed, now it's an occasional staff exit, used mainly by cleaners and emergency services and high-ranking officials wishing to avoid a media circus out the front when something big goes on. When executions were still commonplace, we called it "Heaven's door" because it provided us the heavenly relief from protesters and the media congregating outside the regular entrance. I haven't used it in over a year.

I'm walking across the bitumen, angry and confused, confused by my anger and angry  _at_  my confusion. None of this is making  _any_  sense.

Then another thought occurs to me:  _What if Waverley's right?_  Suppose Gavin  _did_  somehow manage to puppeteer everything-- perhaps his involvement wasn't limited to Dr. Smeer's fall-- which  _had_  to have come from one of them-- Gavin  _or_  Engarde-- I'm not sure-- suppose Gavin somehow managed to get the drug searches happening-- but  _why_? And  _how_? He's in the hospital...

None of this makes any sense. Gavin has no foreseeable motivation-- even if he managed to do all this from a hospital bed and with his own problems to worry about,  _why_  would he do it? What hold would he have over Plan, one of Gant's cronies and a silent associate of Engarde's, anyway? 

I'm walking in a straight line, crossing lines of cars and empty space, and I feel as though I could be walking in circles. Nothing is adding up, and trying to make it add up is only adding more confusion to the mess.

Is this all just some sort of battle being waged between--  _what_? Kristoph Gavin and Glenn Waverley? Kristoph Gavin and the system? Or are Waverley and the system just a platform for something else: is this really a showdown between Damon Gant and Kristoph Gavin? Or is it more vague and surreal-- could it really be that  _everyone_  is being brutally mindfucked by Matt Engarde and someone else pulling strings behind the scenes-- someone perfectly random like-- I don't know,  _Richard Wellington_?

I mutter an obscenity under my breath. Maybe Waverley's overestimating his own importance in the whole thing, maybe I am. 

I'm winding myself up in circles, and getting no answers. The smart solution is often the simplest-- Gavin vs. Waverley.

I'm not sure if I'm more comfortable with the idea of being in the brutal hands of Waverley's rule, or attached to the delicate strings being controlled by Gavin. 

"Doctor!" I turn around.

Lily's waiting by the wall for me.

 

“...Lily?" 

She's huddled against the side wall, not somewhere I'd usually expect to see someone waiting, wearing her long coat-- her disguise-- what she wears over her uniform as she leaves the building and goes about her day as to not be recognised as a prison officer, I suppose-- and she's smoking. I look down near her feet; there are half a dozen little white cigarette butts scattered around her.

"You  _waited_  for me?" 

"I need to talk," she says quietly. "And I'm  _not_  talking here."

I don't like the fear in her voice. 

"We'll walk to my car." I shrug. "Or yours-- where's yours?" 

"At the mechanic's," she says, puffing out another cloud of smoke. In the dimming light which has been replaced by the harsh white glow of a security globe, her wrinkles and fading makeup look so much more obvious; she's a tragic, real woman in distress, but under the coat and with the fear in her voice, there's an almost theatrical noir figure standing there. 

I can't help but feel slightly protective towards her. 

"How did you get here then?" 

"I caught a cab from the station." She doesn't sound pleased; the fare wouldn't have been a light one given the relatively remote location of the prison. 

"I'll drive you back?" 

"Thankyou." 

"I owe you a coffee on the way there, then," she says with a weak smile. 

Coffee is the last thing I want, but one of the things I  _do_  want is to put her at ease, to hear the fear leave her voice, and to find out what the hell she needed to hide out waiting to tell me. 

"It's a deal," I tell her, smiling. Already I'm noticing the way my back aches and that maybe I was too quick to dismiss the benefits of chiropractic therapy. Perhaps I'll look into it again on my days off; this isn't healthy, and taking a few Percocet for the aching isn't going to stop the underlying cause. 

Is Gavin still the cause of my stress, or is he operating through a third party now? I'm not sure.

 

  
Lily and I walk towards my car, silent, and it's only when I open the front door and let her take the passenger seat that she begins to say anything. "Thankyou," she murmurs as I sit down and close my door. 

I turn the key in the ignition and the radio blares.  _Super Classic Evening_  comes on and I'm hearing an old song, one of those ancient tracks back from the days of big hair and shoulder pads--  _Everybody Wants To Rule The World_.

I snap the radio off. It seems too darkly appropriate after the day I've had.

Lily speaks up as we pull out of the car park and leave the prison behind us. 

"He talked to you, didn't he?" she asks.

"If you mean Waverley--"

"Yes," she says. "He was trying to stop me talking to you, I think-- he sent me home after dinner was dished out-- I didn't need to  _do_  anything, really..." Her voice shakes and I glance at her; her wiry little hands are shaking, too, I can see-- "He heard me ask to talk to you in the staff room and wanted to stop that," she says. "He probably counted on me getting out of there ASAP after all that shit with the lights going out and not sticking around-- but I suppose he bailed you up to make sure we wouldn't run into one another."

There's a woman who believes in the conspiracy theory she's telling me about.

"Why would he do that, though?" I ask slowly. "He's never had a problem with staff talking to me before."

Maybe Lily's previous issues-- the bullying, the sexual harassment, his dislike of Gavin and other inmates-- has shaped her view of him. Maybe she can only view him with shit-tinted glasses and a healthy dose of suspicion. 

"That's because none of them have suggested he's evil, I suppose," she continues. She's sounding nervous. 

"Oh--" I laugh-- possibly an attempt to stifle my own nerves as much as hers-- "Plenty of people tell me stuff like that-- if my walls could talk about what everyone says about one another--"

"This goes beyond office bitching," she says. "He's  _dangerous_." My blood freezes at the term and the seriousness, and I find us stopped at a red light. 

 

"Look," she says. "I know we've had our issues-- the sexual harassment and the intimidation-- I was prepared to wear that and let it go until he did it in front of other people. And then I was attacked for not standing up for myself. And then it got worse behind closed doors." She pauses abruptly. "That was years ago, anyway-- I don't think a tough old broad like me could keep his interest any way." 

  
I nod. "He's not a threat in that respect-- sure, he's always putting me down, he gives me the menial and shitty jobs to do, he never takes me seriously, he says that I'm  _soft_ \--" she spits out the word with the sort of revulsion suggesting that she would rather be called a child molester-- "but none of that bothers me." She rolls her eyes. "I'm in a boys' environment. That's going to piss off some of the boys." She brushes some wrinkles out of her pants. "You get used to it." 

I nod again, not sure what to say. Memories of sexual harassment and equal opportunity employment seminars flash through my mind. I don't say anything.

"I know he's connected," she says insistently. "And I've known that he and deNong buddied up in their early days together and that they have poker nights and stuff-- I always suspected that was why he seemed to get away with stuff but wondered if it was my own interaction with him which made me believe the worst." She sighs. "I know he's always had a soft spot for Gant, and that Gant exploited that, appealed to his need for power and all, to make him feel like a god." She runs a hand through her hair, her fingers wriggling between her loosening ponytail, wrangling it free from the elastic. She shakes her hair loose and the red light changes; there's a snap as her hair tie shifts along her wrist, and she tosses her hair like a model in a shampoo commercial. I check my mirrors and see her apprehensive face staring back at me in the reflection of the windscreen.

"I'm sure everyone has their favourites," I say evenly.

"I know we do," she says. "And it's not about that-- having favourites is fine, but he steps right over into corruption. He lied to me outright about something today."

I blink, and in that blink, I'm wondering what detail I wondered about which could have been lied about and side-stepped.

"He found that nail file on Wellington, didn't he?" I ask. So typical of Waverley, to not want something like that to tarnish his reputation.

The look on Lily's face suggests that I'm wrong.

"He found drugs, didn't he, but he's not saying who had them because he either wants the inmates to take care of it themselves--"  _fuck_ , I think--  _It's Engarde_ \-- "Or it's one of his pet inmates--"

"It's not about anything like that," she says dismissively, her voice suggesting an urgency beyond that. "It's Gavin."

I groan, melodramatically smacking my hands against the steering wheel. "And there I was, having a conversation about work where it looked like his name  _wasn't_  going to come up." 

She's not smiling. 

"What's he done now? Still arguing about his right to press charges-- which he has-- or has he found out about Engarde being searched and is he threatening to sue over th--"

"Listen," she hisses, sitting up straight in the seat. "You know how Waverley told me he'd done all my obs and Gavin's case notes?"

She's furious, and I let her continue.

"I went past the hospital-- I thought I might be able to talk him around on the charges-- I was thinking of offering the bribery of bringing in a bottle of that nail enamel he likes or letting him work in the post office or use the showers at the same time as Engarde is or  _something_." She sounds desperate and stubborn. "I probably could have brought him around, too." 

And that's when I get it; the anger and fury of a shattered chance. And then the reality dawns upon me: that chance was shattered--  _why_?

"What happened?" I can feel my heart racing, in time with the vibration of the engine. And I'm scared now, like she sounded when she first started talking to me. 

"Gavin isn't  _in_  the hospital any more," she says angrily. "Waverley's written up a day's obs and a case note worth of  _lies_."

There's a silence from both of us which seems to stretch out into an eternity. "Where is he then?" I ask.

 

"I don't  _know_ ," she says. "I do know that I wasn't supposed to know that he had left the hospital, and the nurse there told me he'd been returned to the unit-- which is  _bullshit_ \-- because the unit was on lockdown and there was no way in hell Waverley could have shuffled the paperwork and moved Gavin that quickly... is there? That would have been-- what-- a few  _minutes_?"

 

"Are you suggesting  _Waverley_  caused the blackout?" 

  
Hey, stranger things seem to have happened.

Lily doesn't discount the theory, nor does she take it as a joke made in poor taste. Maybe she's considering the possibility herself, or maybe she's not putting anything beyond him. Or maybe she's trying to work out how he could have done it and how it would fit into the grander scheme of things.

"Why would he do that?" I ask. "And didn't some guy called Rolla short out the power-- something everyone knew about  _months_  ago?"

"I don't trust Waverley," she says again, her voice shaking. "And I want to know where Gavin is. Because he's my client and if there's corruption-- which there probably  _is_ \-- and he chooses to report it-- I'm looking at being investigated because I'm his worker." 

I nod. "Something's off about  _all_  of this."

"Yeah," she says. "And... look:" She straightens up in the seat once more, flipping down the sunshade and glimpsing at her creased eyeshadow in it. Rubbing away a smudge with a finger, she talks to me, calmer and matter-of-factly-- "I don't particularly like Gavin-- I don't like him in the way you seem to or in the way Waverley likes Gant or how everyone liked Armando-- I just deal with him because I have to and he's my client."

I nod.

"I find him a pain in the ass, to be honest-- he'd difficult to engage with and he's high-maintenance and he's  _sneaky_  in a way that most of them aren't-- he's cold. Underhanded." She's finished with her eyes and fluffs her hair once more, retying it with the elastic band on her wrist and studying the effect in the small mirror. "I don't trust him and I don't like him, the more I know him-- and in all seriousness, I think he has some nerve wanting to charge his brother with assault after what he did to Klavier. Surely Klavier could argue some sort of post-traumatic stress thing, couldn't he, because...?"

She veers herself back on topic. "He's my client, though, and more than anything, I don't like that Waverley so blatantly  _lied_  to me. In front of everyone else. And that no one's going to check up on that."

She's right, and it's nerve-wracking. But we've reached the shops, a nice little strip of cafes and restaurants lit up for the hungry passerby and the night sky.

"Wanna go get that coffee?" 

"Yes," she says, noticing as the car slows, looking around at the shops. I feel a pang of awfulness when we drive past the Thai place I had dinner with Lauryn at. It feels like another hollow failure to me.

I'm almost grateful when she shifts the conversation back to the workplace again.

"Look," she says, still nervous again, "Waverley's dangerous-- I've always suspected as much. But if he can actually make someone  _disappear_ \-- and absolutely no one questions it because they haven't even noticed-- that makes him even more dangerous, doesn't it?"

"You're right," I mutter as I pull into a kerbside parking space.

She is. I don't want to think about that right now though.

"It makes me wonder what else he's gotten away with and what else he might be planning, you know."

I nod. In the silence of the killed engine and the comfort and security of the locked interior of the car, I turn to her as I unfasten my seatbelt.

"Why did you tell  _me_  about it?" I ask her. "I can't really do anything, can I?"

"You believe me and you aren't going to tell him what I told you," she says. "Which is more than I can say about my faith in anyone else."

I still feel protective towards her, but a self-preservative terror fills me. She's right about that, too.

 

 

It was the quickest and most awkward coffee I've had in a long time; the last I remember like that, with such forced conversation about nothing was from some time back in college when I'd dated one of Lauryn's friends, a woman whose name I've long forgotten but whose life ambition was to be the first academic  _Playboy_  centrefold.

Lily and I didn't have that problem, I realised, of being two people with completely different lives and ambitions fused together for a few moments of conversation which might as well have been in foreign languages-- Lily and I had nothing we  _wanted_  to discuss; talking shop was one thing, but you didn't do it publicly due to privacy laws, talking about anything else never seemed to occur to us. 

I dropped her off at the station to profusely offered thanks, she was grateful for more than just the lift there.

 

  
I wasn't sure if I was grateful for the coffee and her information; the coffee was too bitter, the information only throwing another spanner into the works, and entire evening made me miss Lauryn and the way we used to talk about things. With Lauryn and I, it wasn't just shop talk, we had an understanding and a friendship. Lily and I didn't trust one another to get to that point, and we probably had good reason not to.

It's when I'm driving home that the thoughts come back to me, and I'm adding Lily's information about Waverley lying and Gavin disappearing to the bonfire of confusion. Once again, nothing makes any sense. But this has added a new dimension of surreal, and another handful of questions. 

The first being:  _Does Waverley know where Gavin actually_ is _?_  

Because that one could add a whole new level of corruption and terror to things; a new media frenzy to battle off, and new concerns-- Waverley lacks Parke's cool-headed pizazz when it comes to dealing with things-- and that probably includes the media.

And the idea of an escapee Gavin, burning for revenge and crazy and clever and sneaky enough to seek it out and pull it off-- is nothing short of terrifying.

I'm mentally compiling a list of names of people who may be viewed as traitors-- Klavier Gavin and Apollo Justice, of course-- Phoenix Wright and by association, Miles Edgeworth-- possibly Vera Misham who'd been unsuccessfully poisoned by Gavin nearly two years ago; the judge, the jury... 

And what about  _us_? I'd immediately considered outsiders, the high-profile figures attached to his offending behaviour, not to those he'd encountered since being incarcerated. Did he had a problem with Parke? With Lily? Waverley, certainly-- what about--  _me_?

The idea of a murderous Gavin appearing at my door is terrifying, and I'm almost stunned when I arrive at my doorstep and it is empty. The security light flickers on with my presence, but beyond that, it's nothing more than my lonely little divorced-father's dwelling. 

 

  
I'm being paranoid, which is almost understandable. The conspiracies and the danger and the bitchiness and the long hours have taken their toll on me; I feel as though I'm playing several chess games all at once while I'm blindfolded and someone keeps randomly tilting the boards. Paranoia is probably to be expected in this situation.

I try to console myself with the idea that Gavin probably hasn't escaped, using logic to calm myself-- he's too recognisable, too obvious, too unable to survive on his own any more in the real world. If he's plotted and planned all he has in prison, he's doing it for a reason; he's invested in the place, he's building his life in there rather than thinking about one out here.

I have two days off to recuperate and not think about this, two days to be free of work and the prison and the crazy, two days to relax and unwind, only to push myself back into it after my weekend. It hardly seems worth it, especially when I could do anything I want to, and the only thing I want to do right now is go back there, comforted with the fact that I know where Gavin is and whatever the misunderstanding was that meant that Lily missed seeing him in the hospital and the nurse got it wrong-- I want this to be all an elaborate and poorly-timed misunderstanding. Not the alternative.

 

When I step inside, my first inclination is to pour myself a drink. I want that drink, hell I  _need_  that drink. But glancing at the phone on the bench, a thought occurs to me-- no, it's not too late-- and I check my phone in my pocket and punch the number in on my landline. 

I've been meaning to call her for awhile, and I've gotten caught up in this bullshit instead. And I haven't called her, and I need to apologise. 

I'm not expecting her to answer, perhaps she's out, she's probably doing something else on a Friday night.

I am not expecting to hear the dial tone stop after two rings and the bewildered voice on the other end, shocked and pleased and distracted from something else.

" _Dad_?" 

"Hi, Anna."

I want to hold her. It's been a long time since I've seen her, and that's yet another failure-- there were promises, of course, to catch up, to let her stay with me; the guest room lies untouched by my non-existent social life and guests in need of bedspace and the custody visits I never took advantage of. 

And now she's verging on teenaged. And she's been trying to call me for far too long.

" _Is that you?_ " She sounds incredulous but not unhappy or bitter-- "Ohmygod-- Mom was saying you'd probably lost your phone or something or that I was ringing at a bad time or--"

"It's me, Anna."

"Ohmygod--  _Dad_." 

I'm surprised at the lump in my throat.

"How are you, honey?" And that's where things grow awkward and I realise that I don't don't know what to say to her any more than I knew what to say as she and Liz were driving away with some immediate possessions and a U-Haul. "How's Mom? How's..." I don't want to acknowledge him. It's petty and awful of me, but I can't deal with it; the lump in my throat is only rising and threatening to push tears out of my eyes. I know the saying goes "Better late than never," but I always wonder if anyone's actually studied that theory and turned up evidence suggesting that it's  _not_  better late than never, it's better letting sleeping dogs and dead marriages and lost families lie.

I can't be a pessimist now-- this is my  _child_. My  _daughter_.

"Dad-- I've  _missed you_."

It's almost comforting to realise that I'm not the only one crying now.

"Geez-- Anna-- I'm--  _sorry_ \--"

"I know-- I know-- Mom says you've been busy with work..." She stops vaguely and then starts up another thread of conversation. "You know, it was only at the start of the year that I found out what you actually  _do_." She's rambling and there's a chuckle in her voice. It's nervous. "When I was little, I remember being told that you were a psychiatrist who helped people with their problems-- then I heard about you working in a prison. I didn't really know what that meant and I was scared you'd get hurt because there were bad people there... And I never put the two together and--" There's a nervous laugh from her. "Remember that band I used to like-- the Gavinners? And I had Gavinners T-shirts and posters everywhere and--"

I'm dreading what's coming. It's like my little girl has just learned how to talk, and the first word out of her mouth is  _"Fuck."_  

I know what's coming.

"--Remember that guitarist that killed that guy and the Gavinners split up as a band and-- that guitarist is at your work, isn't he?" She sounds awed and pleased with herself, like she's nutted something out and needs to share it. "I looked it up on the internet-- he was sentenced to life but he can always apply for parole, can't he?" 

"You're... well informed." 

"I'm interested in legal stuff," she says. "I'm going to be a lawyer when I grow up."

She sounds so naively enthusiastic that it almost--  _almost_  cuts out the sound of my brain screaming  _nooooo_  and the memories of Lauryn telling me, exhausted and job-drained, about how her most neurotic and messed up clients all seem to be lawyers. 

My little girl wants to be a lawyer. And I never knew.

"What does mom say about that?" I ask her nervously.

 

"That apparently I need to pick up the books more often and stop watching court TV," she says, and there's a childish groan in her voice, and I can picture her rolling her eyes. "But that was what got me into it in the first place, Dad-- I used to stay at home from school and pretend to be sick so I could watch out-of-state court TV in case Klavier-- that was the Gavinner's lead singer-- was on."

  
 _Oh trust me, Anna-- I know who Klavier Gavin is._

"Do you remember that, Dad?" 

That's the point where the conversation has changed for me, where she continues talking. "And then, apparently, his  _brother_  went crazy and he  _killed_  this guy-- what a freaking psychopath, you know-- and then he wound up in jail and--" Maybe she hasn't drawn the connection yet. There's a part of me that feels haunted and revolted, like every fiber of my being has been consumed and overwritten with my professional role. Even my daughter, when I get to talk to her, just wants to talk about Kristoph fucking Gavin.

"I know what you're talking about." 

"You  _do_?" 

I hate the way she sounds so excited, like she could be talking about meeting famous people.

"Yes." I don't mean to sound so testy, but I was hoping that I'd be able to talk to  _her_. About her life, about our family, about something so normal and removed from everything else I've been dealing with lately.

"How are  _you_?" I ask, breaking and changing the conversation. "What have you been doing with yourself?"

"Not much," she says. "It's pretty boring-- school. Piano lessons. Babysitting for some kids down the road-- there's this family, the McKenzies-- they've got these three kids--"

And as she begins describing them, I realise something in her speech patterns and her tone of voice. She's not told me a word about what her homelife is like.

"How's  _Mom_?" I ask tentatively. 

She stops as though she's been caught redhanded, and I smile even though my cheeks are wet with tears and the plastic of the receiver feels sticky against my skin. There's still something so innocent about her, so simple and sweet, something devoid of the sorts of mindgames I'm used to in a day's work.

"She's okay," she says dismissively.

"How's...  _Alan_?" 

That's when she goes quiet. "He's really nice," she says guiltily, and then stops herself. "Look, he's not my dad and I miss you, but..." 

Perhaps that's when I feel part of my chest cave in and give way. I sit down into the seat, pressing my weight into it as though I'm wishing to steady myself. I'm a father, unfairly displaced.

"Any news on the wedding?" I ask.

There's a silence and it's so long compared to the chatter from her only moments ago that I wonder, for a split second, if there's been some kind of technical failure and I've been cut off. It would be fitting for a moment like this, I suppose, given the unfortunate luck I seem to be hit with at veery other corner, why not now?

"Yeah," she says quietly. "It's all being organised, I'm allowed to invite a few of my friends and we're all getting dressed up-- Mom says I can choose my dress-- within  _reason_ , whatever that means--"

"Your mother probably has the right idea." There. I'm being the supportive, non-conflicting parent. I support Liz's right to have our daughter at her wedding, and for said daughter to be appropriately dressed.

"Mom wants me to wear this boring-looking  _dress_ ," she says. "But I've said no pink-- I don't want to look like Emily Stagner or Jennifer McEwan-- they're the class  _Barbies_." She groans melodramatically.

 

"The class  _Barbies_?" I ask.

  
"Yeah-- they're these girls that just-- I dunno, want to be all prissy and stupid and slutty all the time-- I hate them."

"So who do you like?" I ask.

"I don't really hang around with anyone," she says. "I'm that weird new kid, still, who takes days off and watches court TV and doesn't talk to a lot of people, I guess." 

I feel lonely for her then, lonely because my own childhood memories were tainted with similar episodes; I wasn't that star quarterback or the head of the chess club or the editor of the paper; I was that outsider who observed people and formulated theories on their social interaction, I read anything I could get my hands on about psychology, I read poetry and autobiographies about regular people who'd all but destroyed their lives and risen from the ashes. 

My parents hadn't realised that I was such an outsider, that I skirted on the edges of normal, that I wasn't one of the freaks in black or the stoners or the punks getting in trouble, but I used to wonder how far I could get pushed and how I'd react when I was. 

And now my daughter sounds like she understands it too.

She's still talking, about the highschool bitchiness and the cliques-- I zone out, preoccupied and disgusted with what feels like my own failure as a parent. 

"Anna," I say after a bit. She draws for breath and stops.

"It's  _Dad_!" I hear her call out and then she returns to me. "That was Mom, asking who was calling so late-- do you wanna talk to Dad, Mom?" 

She returns to talk to me. "Mom says hello," she tells me. Her voice drops. "I think she wants to invite you to the wedding, but she doesn't know if you'd want to go or if it would be ...weird." She sounds so matter-of-fact. "She said she thought you might be at work on the day, though, and that--" She stops herself. I'm not going up to the wedding; I'm not being a ghost of a life lived before Alan, I'm not haunting their special day, expected to dance on my own grave. But I realise why Anna's so insistently telling me this.

"I miss you, Dad," she says.

And that's when I can't help it, but I say it, glancing in the direction of the spare room. "I've always said you could come visit if you wanted to."

I think that was what she was looking for, and her voice perks up. " _Really_?" 

And I'm a runaway train, skittering off track wildly, just wanting to fix at least one thing in my life-- "Yeah-- but we'd have to run it by your mother and Alan, I guess, and your school--"

"Who cares about school?" she asks giddily. "I'm gonna be a lawyer--"

"Yes, and you need school to get into law school." I wonder if the lawyer fascination will be replaced by the desire to do something else. My little girl is growing up and finding her identity, and I've missed so much of it. 

"I  _know_ ," she groans. "But-- yeah-- when can I come visit?"

"I'll email your mom over the week and sort something out if you like-- we'll need to talk about this-- but we can make it happen-- it just won't happen immediately."

"Oh-- right--" There's a distant voice, a male voice, I notice, calling out to her in the background. 

"Hey, Dad?" 

"Yeah, honey?" 

"When I come down, can I visit your work? Or is it like a real prison with razorwire and security and stuff?" 

I've heard of Take Your Daughter To Work Day, but I shake my head. "They won't let you visit," I tell her. "And I wouldn't want you to."

"But it would be  _interesting_."

"We'll do other interesting things when you come visit," I tell her warmly. "Things which won't get me fired and won't scare you away from working with criminals."

"I'm gonna be a prosecutor," she tells me. I almost want to ring Lauryn after this and ask for reassurance that there are plenty of well-balanced, normal prosecutors out there. 

"That's... great, Anna."

"Yeah..." She moves the phone away and yells out into the background-- "All  _right_ , already!" And then turns back to me. "I'm sorry," she says. "We're going out to the market tomorrow morning and Mom's just told me I need to go to bed-- but-- can I ring you later, Dad?"

"Sure," I tell her quietly. "Whenever you want."

"Last time I rang you never rang back."

"I can't use the phone when I'm at work," I remind her feeling guilt knotting around my stomach. "Security stuff."

"Oh." She pauses. "Did something  _happen_?" Such an innocent question, asked so enthusastically.

"There was a bit of an emergency that day, yes."

"What happened?" she asks. "Did someone get hurt?" She thinks on that for a moment as I try to work out how to explain the variety show incident in only a couple of sentences. "Do people get killed and stuff at your work?"

"Sometimes," I tell her. "But not very often." If she's going to be a prosecutor, I suppose she needs to know the truth. 

"What about the people who work there?" Shit. How come I can play verbal chess games with someone like Gavin, yet I can't notice the most obvious things I shouldn't say to my own daughter? Geez.

"They keep us safe," I tell her. "I've never heard of a staff member being killed by anyone in the workplace."  _Just threatened_ , I think, but she doesn't need to know about the internal politics of the place.

"Oh," she says. And then there's the distance-- "All  _right_." Back to me.

"I gotta go, Dad-- but... I'll talk to you soon, okay?" She sounds so excited, so happy, so...  _real_. She's not just a vague relation or an idea, she's... my daughter.

"I'll talk to you later, then," I tell her, my own voice shuddering yet full of promise. "And I'll email Mom." I have the sense that I don't want to hang up first.

"I love you." I can feel a tear leaking down the side of my face and a sniffle in the back of my throat. I'll cry later.

"I love you too, Dad... bye..."

When I'm met with the sound of the dial tone, I place the phone back in the bracket, I pour myself a drink, and I sob. 

 

I wonder, after the third whiskey, after I can no longer be bothered going to the freezer for ice, how I've managed to effectively screw up so much in my life, how I've managed to all but alienate my daughter, how she's still managed to be so happy and upbeat in spite of what she's come from being so damned chaotic.

I wonder if this is precisely what I was using work to escape from, and the thought of resigning, of doing something much more normal occurs to me in all seriousness. I fantasise how it could have been, in possibly the same way some of my clients do; not in if I hadn't made a particular choice or wrong move, but if I'd never allowed the prison to seep into my bloodstream and begin defining my identity, reconfiguring everything like a godamned computer virus.

Unlike those men, though, there's a possibility that I could still get out.


	25. Plan A

Monday morning is traditionally a busy time for me. 

I arrive at work and I'm met with inmates wanting appointments, with staff wanting appointments for inmates, with a description of the drama and action I missed over the weekend. Except lately, when I've been  _working_  weekends, popping in for a few hours to catch up on my workload, an appointment here or there, a report written, emails fired off, that sort of thing. 

This weekend, I've forced myself to stay away from the place. I stayed at home, I called Anna back and had a lengthy conversation with her on the Sunday, we talked about nothing and everything and there was the insistence from her to come and visit. And another push to visit Dad's workplace. 

"No," I'd finally said. "They're not very nice people, Anna." 

 

The staffroom is quiet when I wander in; it's early and only Lily, who rushes in after me, and Towne, who is making himself a coffee and looking strangely out of sorts, are in there.

"Hey doc." Towne tips some milk into the coffee and doesn't even stir it before taking a sip, wincing at the heat, and placing his cup down on the table. "Any idea when Parkey's coming back?"

"Not soon enough," Lily says angrily. 

"No shit." Towne glances around the room, watching the door. 

"What happened after I'd left?" Evidently, the two of them worked the evening, and I missed out on whatever had happened.

"Where is everyone?" I ask.

"Waverley's out there having a breakfast meeting with everyone." 

"With  _them_  now?" I ask. I grab myself a coffee mug and open the container of coffee with the end of an unwashed teaspoon. "I thought he did the unit meetings with staff this early."

"Emergency circumstances, doc. We've had a shit of a weekend."

Lily grumbles to herself and takes a sip of her own coffee. "He was right, though, wasn't he? Or at least, that's what he's making them  _think_." 

"What  _happened_?"

They both look at me. 

"There were no drugs found on the unit, and Crescend and Engarde barricaded themselves in that room that they've been using for music. Waverley said they were conspiring something, which they very well  _could_ have been, but the situation escalated after Waverley tried dealing with it himself and..." 

"Engarde and Crescend?" I ask. "That's an interesting combination."

"Yeah," Towne says. "No shit-- I'm with Waverley, though-- something's going on with those two because there's usually no valentines between either of them and they were acting like best friends in there."

Lily grumbles to herself again. 

"It's gotta be drugs," Towne says. "Even though I didn't think Crescend used. I wouldn't put it past him trying to bring stuff in to make a quick buck off Engarde and Plan, though."

"Gavin's going to  _love_  that," I say sarcastically, and then look at Lily.

" _He_ 's still holed up in the hospital," she tells me. Her voice is dry and furious, like she can't believe what she's telling me. 

"I thought he was back on the unit."

Towne gives me a strange look and a smile, the sort of expression not to denote amusement but awareness that we're in on the same situation. 

" _Yeah_ ," says Lily. "Apparently  _that_  was all a big misunderstanding due to shift changes with the nurses and Waverley bringing Gavin down to the unit for a meeting." She stops, and then looks at Towne. "Do  _you_ remember being asked on Friday night to escort Gavin down to the office for a  _meeting_?"

"Nope," he says. "I remember shitting myself about the power outage. And there's been more talk of them doing it again."

"I swear, this is going to be Parke's downfall," Lily says darkly. "We'd all known about that power issue thanks to Moreau's obsession with it, and he should have gotten it sorted out earlier-- now Waverley's saying there's going to be a three-week wait on getting the funding for it and approval."

"But it's emergency stuff here," I point out. "It's a safety risk to both staff and inmates-- and--"

"Not according to deNong, apparently-- they can just keep the unit on lockdown until it's fixed-- Waverley's telling them that right now, apparently. It cuts down on staffing costs, too, which they're going to need because the pool's already blown over budget."

"The pool?"

"There's a staff brief on it which came through on Friday," Towne mutters, looking at a few A4 sheets pinned to the staff noticeboard-- "It's gonna be more trouble than it's worth if you ask me-- apparently the site needs a security upgrade because of its close proximity to that exit near the morgue."

"Like the morgue gets used much anyway," Lily says, rolling her eyes. "I dunno where else they thought they could put it-- it's not like a pool can just go on the third floor and all will be okay."

"What's the problem with the morgue?"

"That gate for the van to get out," Towne explains to me. "They're worried prisoners will hijack the van and make a run for it; the exits around the pool room can potentially lead to the morgue in case there's a fire or a chemical spill or something else that requires a quick evacuation from the area."

"Or what? A... pool monster?" I ask. "Why not just only allow approved low-risk inmates to use the pool?"

"I can see the concern about safety," Lily says. "The thing's chlorinated. Get someone like Behr or Gavin working in the pool area and playing with poisonous chemicals, and I'm sure they could kill someone."

"That's a reassuring thought." I sip my coffee. "I thought Gant would have been a shoe-in for the pool duties."

"Me too," Lily says, "But Waverley wants him moved to minimum security." 

"So what else happened over the weekend?" I ask. "We seem to have gone off track a bit here--"

"Oh. Yeah.  _That_." Lily's about to explain, but Towne cuts in.

"Field-- Knox Field-- and Denham-- are off work for the next however long-- Waverley grabbed them as backup in the music room and told them to come out and get searched and they could go back to the unit with no trouble-- and he had the door open, didn't he?"

"So--?"

"Engarde went off his nut and kicked that cupboard where they keep the music stuff-- Waverley grabbed him from behind and the door fell open, next thing, Engarde's swinging around a bass guitar and Field and Denham collected it."

"Shit.”

"Engarde's in iso at the moment and you've been asked to go down and see him to reassess his medication--"

"So this happened--  _when_?"

"Saturday evening."

"And Engarde wasn't moved back to the unit or to isolation?"

"Apparently isolation is getting cleaned out," Lily says dryly. "I wonder  _why_."

"I know your theory," Towne says, "But-- c'mon, Lily-- coincidental."

"What's your theory?"

"No one's been down there," she says. "It doesn't _need_ cleaning. Unless--"

And the door opens with a clatter. Waverley stomps in with a gloating face and a swagger in his step, and Lily falls silent.

"Well that's  _that_  sorted," he says smugly. "They're all on the alert-- anyone fucking around with the power outlets and causing another blackout gets the unit put on lockdown for a week, everyone gets to know who did it, and they get two weeks in isolation after lockdown ends. It's brutal. No one's that stupid."

"How are we going to know who set the power off if there's a blackout?" Lily asks.

"Video footage?" Waverley is confident and unimpressed with her. "No one's going to try that shit-- I've got them scared. And after the weekend, no one's gonna put a toe out of line."

"What happened?" I ask.

"Engarde and Crescend were conspiring to get drugs or something on the unit-- I don't  _care_ , they locked themselves in the music room, I told 'em to come out, Crescend does, Engarde doesn't and refuses a search, next thing we know, he's assaulting staff with a bass guitar. Same old shit." He nods to me. "You're gonna need to go reassess his medication levels; we can't have him going off like that all the time--" He smiles then, friendly and easygoing, as though he was never the man threatening me last week. I feel ill looking at him and I'm already wondering what Engarde's explanation of the situation will be. 

"They've also been filled in that after the drug raid, if anyone  _is_  found with drugs on them or in them, or under the influence of said drugs or  _whatever_ , that's an instant trip to isolation until the situation is sorted. Looks like they're gonna be as straight as picket fences for awhile." He shrugs. "And I've got some more good news, too," he tells us as an afterthought as he pushes on the door behind him "-- looks like Gavin's dropping the charges against his brother."

He disappears then, and in the background a buzzer sounds, indicating that breakfast is over and the day is officially starting.

"Good news," I repeat to myself.

"Yeah," Lily says. "Worry not, all is well. My  _ass_."

 

 

"What the  _fuck_?" Engarde looks up at us as the door to the isolation cell is opened. "I thought you cunts were coming to feed me."

I look from Engarde's face-- he looks terrible, a combination of insomnia and stress and the inability to shower taking their toll on him-- to Waverley's. 

"When was his last meal?" I ask tentatively. It's not the dried blood streaked across the walls and down Engarde's face, disappearing under the shirt fabric at his neck and ending up god-knows-where which disturbs me-- there's something hollow and scared about him. He looks ill and he looks crazy, with a hunger that seems more literal for him than a lot of the others who look like that-- 

"Saturday's lunch!" Engarde snarls, staggering to stand up, glaring at Waverley like an injured animal. 

Waverley casts a stony glare at him. "I know you like alleging things about staff, Engarde," he says coldly. "Our other resident psychiatrist can attest to that, now, can't he?" 

I hate Waverley once again. The meanness in his voice, the knowledge that he's got the upper hand, and the way he's lauding it over Engarde like that, sickens me. 

"Fuck you."

"May I speak with Mr. Engarde alone?" I ask. 

Waverley's eyes narrow at me. "Knock yourself out," he says and then shoots another look at Engarde. "Unless he does first." 

He locks the door behind me, and I move towards the wall, taking in the stench of the room, now enclosed and having nowhere else to flee to. It's revolting but expected, if Engarde has been in here since Saturday evening.

"So you've been in here since Saturday?" I ask him. 

I'm expecting a smart-ass answer, to be asked if I read the papers or not, to be told I'm a cunt and that I'm in with Waverley, or for a stream of aggression and obscenities. But I don't get any of that; Engarde just nods sadly, his hair limply falling in front of his face. 

"Dude," he says quietly. "I wasn't making that shit up about the meal thing. They seriously haven't given me anything to eat since Saturday. They keep telling me I'll get moved out soon anyway and to just hold on a bit longer."

My hand instinctively goes into my pocket. I don't know why; I'm hoping to find something I can offer him, some breath mints or chewing gum even though I keep neither on me. I believe him despite my better judgement suggesting I don't. I've seen Engarde lie and scream and allege all kinds of things from the guards offering him sexual favours for an autograph to the ceiling paint swirling around him to Tom Moreau being sexually interested in Gavin. But I believe this one. 

"What's their reason for holding you here?"

He gives me a withering look, aware that I'd already know. "I smacked Denham in the mouth with a guitar and knocked a couple of his teeth out, and gave Field one hell of a shiner," he says. There's triumph in his voice but he doesn't sound  _happy_. "I was trying to hit Waverley, for fuck's sake-- he fucking  _grabbed_  me and demanded a strip search because I was talking to Crescend." His voice is now bitter and maligned. "He can't  _do_  that," he snaps. "They searched me for drugs last week, and I haven't used  _shit_ ," he says. "It's not legal-- he doesn't have any grounds for another search." I wonder if he knew that before he met Gavin.

"Do you  _know_  anything about the drugs?"

"I'm not saying dick to anyone about drugs or anything else," he says. "They have a nerve, telling us off for doing stuff when they're pulling shit like this on me." 

I can't argue with him there. "Do you want to tell me about what happened?" I ask him.

"You've been told already, haven't you?" 

"In your own words, Mr. Engarde." 

He sniffs. "I want something to eat, and I want to go back on the unit," he says. "And I want to find out what happened to Gavin-- Waverley says he's dead, but that's a load of  _shit_ \-- he does that to people to mess with their heads-- he told Gavin the same thing when he was in here."

I never assumed that Engarde was  _stupid_ , but I'm stunned at the cynicism and disbelief. I'm not discounting the fact that he sounds determined and refusing to believe that Gavin could be dead, either.

"When were you told that?" 

"Yesterday," he says. He looks at me from under his filthy hair. "Where  _is_  he?" he asks. "No one's told me  _shit_." 

I don't know how to tell him that I'm not entirely sure. For all I know, Gavin  _could_  be dead. I also don't wish to let on that I don't trust Waverley, either-- as much I I don't, it could compromise the already slippery situation the prison is in, and it could cause further trouble for both myself and Engarde if it seemed that I had a grudge against staff. 

"I haven't seen him this morning," I offer.

"Fuck this!" He stands up and stomps towards a corner of the room. He's angry, but he's also terrified. And exhausted. He punches the wall half-heartedly, regretting it as he nurses his sore fist with the other hand, still glaring at me. "This is fucked, you know?" There's no affection or closeness in his voice, and it makes me feel frustrated; frustrated and sad. Here was a man who used to tell me things, who trusted me, and now he's looking at me and speaking to me as though I'm just another number. I don't know how to bring that closeness back, how to rebuild that trust.

Even though it's not my fault, I feel a sense of guilt about Engarde. 

"Look," he says, sitting down in a crumpled heap in the corner again. "Just tell them that I plead guilty to assaulting Denham and Field and I'm sorry, that Waverley can search me-- hell, he can  _fuck_  me for all I care-- just get me the hell out of here, and get me something to eat." 

I'm stupidly resigned to maintaining the team spirit of the staffing unit. "I'm sure Waverley wouldn't--" I say, because that's one of the few things I am certain about-- Waverley's somewhat solid heterosexuality. 

Engarde raises an eyebrow and snorts. "You're just like the rest of them," he sniffs, crossing his arms and peering up at me. "I never got why Gavin thought you were so good."

I try not to feel winded by that comment, and I steel my voice, attempting one last time at building some rapport and getting his story. "Do you want to talk to me about what happened?" 

Engarde doesn't say anything, and scowls at me from his corner of the room. My face softens. "Are you  _sure_?" 

He ignores me, and I radio up to be let out of the room. Hamm lets me out, says a cheerful good morning to Engarde, who ignores him as well, and the door is locked.

"He says he's prepared to apologise and undergo a search," I tell him.

 

Hamm nods. "You're  _good_ \-- all I got out of him was swearing and threats about how he was going to kill me and then kill himself. He's calmed down, doc."

"He hasn't eaten for a day and a half-- and he's been stuck in there the whole time."

I'm furious. I'm beyond furious the more I allow myself to think about it. But I quite sincerely have no idea what to do now: I have no one on side except Lily, who doesn't seem like much of a resource right now, and I've lost Engarde's trust. I'm just "like the rest of them." 

I head towards my office, trying not to let that statement claw its way under my skin like everything else in this job has.

 

 

During my break, I decide to go for a walk. It's unofficial-- it's  _my_  time, I'm on the prison grounds with full authorisation to go where ever I need to... I'm not doing anything illegal.

But if I wasn't doing anything underhanded, I wouldn't be telling myself this, would I? 

My heart's racing as I walk down the corridor to the hospital to see if Gavin is there and has been there all along. I'm doing something I've never done when Parke was running things: I'm undermining a manager's direction. And Waverley has threatened to make my life worse should I get in his way-- but I can't just leave Gavin somewhere in a pit of lies and innaccurate paperwork. Seeing Engarde this morning drilled something home to me: what Waverley is running damages people.

Thinking about Engarde is haunting. I've never seen him like that before; there was always a light in his eyes, a sparkle,  _defiance_. He wasn't drug-affected and dulled, doped up on something, rendered complacent by forces affecting his physical condition; even his protests of " _Fuck you_ " seemed half-hearted and listless as did the punch to the wall. Hunger would have been part of it, but it wasn't self-imposed hunger. Talking to Engarde and seeing the change in him-- " _Waverley can search me-- hell, he can fuck me for all I care_ \--" makes me feel a special kind of ill. 

 _Congratulations, Waverley_ , I think bitterly.  _I think you've broken Matt Engarde_.

The thought is harrowing. Engarde had been a pain in the ass since he came in-- years of instability and rage and chaos turned him into the mess he was when I met him, but that mess was still active, there was still a will to live, to  _fight_ , to assert himself underneath it all. I'd seen suicide attempts and self-injury and drug overdoses from him, but until that morning, I'd never thought that Matt Engarde actually wanted to die. The shell of a man I'd seen in that isolation cell was beyond caring. All he wanted was the peace of a meal and some dignity, something so simple compared to earlier demands of his.

He hadn't reached that point alone, I think angrily, and something is stirred in me; I'm not sure if it's true human compassion, concern for him as my patient, the guilt of Redd White's suicide still weighing on my mind, or my own stubborn desire to not wish to see Waverley mess with anyone else's headspace which makes me refuse to see it happen to Gavin. 

  
The hospital is cool and silent when I arrive there, and even the nurses' station is unmanned. Which makes it easier to slip by and down towards where Gavin was last time.

The curtains are still drawn around the bed, as though paying respect to his memory or as though staff have been too lazy to tidy up after him. In truth, I'm not expecting to see him here; I'm expecting to hear that he's been moved somewhere else and to walk out, trying to follow a non-existent trail just to put my mind at rest, to give me something to tell Lily to chase up, to... I'm not sure. But I suspect he's long gone, hidden somewhere else. I'm starting to wonder if I'm looking in the wrong place, and in actuality, he's downstairs. In the morgue. But not working there.

  
But there are footsteps headed down the small ward, clipping against the floor, and Wendy, the magazine-reading nurse, notices me and smiles with recognition.

"I'm just giving Gavin his medication." She glances down at a small tray in her hands with a bottle of clear liquid and a capped syringe in it. 

I raise an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"He's having some painkillers for the injuries he sustained during the assault," she tells me, her voice dropping to an almost-whisper. "I think they moved him back to the unit too soon-- some of that bruising's come to the surface since then and he looks  _awful_."

"Who made that decision?" I ask her cautiously.

 

“Management, apparently." She shrugs. "I dunno why they shifted him when they did, it wasn't like he was bouncing around and treating us like hotel staff-- he slept and read for most of the time." She smiles with a silly, girlish kind of innocence. "And I know I shouldn't say it, but he's quite nice to look at, too." She chuckles to herself. "Not that I'd do anything, anyway, but if he liked women..."

  
 _I'd hold grave concerns for every woman I've known and cared about._

I smile back at her vacantly, and she walks through to the bed, shifting the curtain aside.

"Hello, Mr. Gavin." Maybe she grins at him a bit more toothily than she normally would do. He looks up at her from his bed, a slightly amused smile twisting on his face. If this is his returning the flirting, it's unnerving. If this is him trying to flirt, he's hopeless-- the smile looks disturbing and condescending rather than seductive. I suspect he would have had to have expended more of an effort to win over Engarde. 

Oh, wait: he did. He tried to kill him. 

I'm smiling awkwardly at the thought, trying to avoid looking at either of them. 

"Hello, doctor." His voice is upbeat and smooth, and it forces me to look at his face. His eyes glisten with genuine interest which he didn't seem to afford her, and for a moment, I can't help but feel slightly pleased with myself.  _I have rapport with this man._

He looks dreadful, and I try to continue smiling back at him even though I'm shocked. 

"I wasn't expecting to see you here. What a pleasant surprise."

I'm not sure I could call it that, and I'm certainly not relieved to see him in this state. My medical training is somewhat rusty as I haven't used it much since working here, but I already know that there is no way in hell that the bruising on his face, the angry burgundy swellings-- were there before. 

I don't know if Wendy either doesn't know or doesn't care, but she smiles sweetly at Gavin. "Your pain meds, Mr. Gavin." He says nothing and shifts his arm out from under the covers and she pulls up the sleeve of his robe, exposing pale skin. "Are you still feeling that this one's working?" She's talking to him as her hands are busy filling the syringe and tearing open a sterile swab.

"Yes." I notice that he's become tense now; he's either sick of the flirting or doesn't want me here, I suspect.

"I'll just duck out." I shift behind the curtain and hear a mumble of something and a "Lunch should be soon, Mr. Gavin." She's speaking to him as though he's a small child, something I doubt he appreciates.

She dashes out from behind the curtain and smiles at me, tray in hand. Raising an eyebrow at me, she whispers-- "He doesn't like needles" as though she's learned some little important tidbit about him which she needs to share, like she's gained some part of him-- and I wait until she's gone and shift the curtain aside.

"I thought you might have left, doctor," he says. He sounds neutral to be seeing me, not overly pleased, but not annoyed.

"I wanted to visit." I shrug. "I was wondering why I hadn't seen you in awhile."

The serene look on his face changes, like a pool of water touched and rippling on the surface for a fleeting moment before returning to its still and usual state. 

"I've been recovering from injuries," he tells me. He shifts in the bed uncomfortably. "Forgive me," he mutters, "I haven't been able to shower this morning." He sighs. "Moving around, especially under the influence of the medication I'm on, usually means that I require assistance with personal hygiene." There's a flicker of a smile from him. "I  _did_  request that a particular inmate be relocated to hospital duties, but sadly I was told that wasn't going to happen. I have to make do with Nurse Flirts-a-lot."

At least he can smile about his distasteful situation, and the way he winces when he mentions her makes me think he's unimpressed with having to suffer her, but prepared to put up with it. I still cannot get over the bruising on him, and I raise an eyebrow, trying again for an explanation. 

"That bruising shouldn't be flaring up that much," I tell him. "It should be looking better by now, not worse."

"I've been given anti-inflammatory medication," he says. "And advised to stay here for a few days longer." He blinks at me coolly behind his glasses. His statement hasn't explained anything.

"It's been over a week now, hasn't it?" 

I think he can detect the cynicism in my voice, but I'm gently pushing for an answer here. He nods, though. "Yes," he says. "I've spent the last week in this wing. I'm growing incredibly  _bored_." 

 _Even though you just read and sleep_. He has a reason for wanting to get out of here. And like Engarde, he's being aggravatingly tight-lipped today. I wonder, irritated, why his secrecy couldn't have also extended to him talking about the more disturbing aspects of his sex life or his  _serious_  thoughts about people. No-- I'm his psychiatrist. I get to hear the best bits. Even though he won't tell me whatever the hell is going on right now.

"You should be nearly right to go back to the unit." 

He cocks an eyebrow. "Are you about to suggest that I'm malingering?" he asks. "That I'm more comfortable here or that I enjoy the attention?" 

"Not at all, Mr. Gavin." And the look on my face is hard and determined: I'm almost positive he's lying. 

"Because that would be foolish of me-- I'd much prefer to be stimulated and receiving certain other attention when in an environment with my peers." 

 _I think I know what you mean by that..._

"I suspect they'd underestimated the severity of my injuries," he continues-- "which isn't difficult to do for  _some staff_ \-- I was told about when Armando broke his ankle and they'd initially diagnosed him with a mere sprain." 

"A broken ankle is different to some bruising to the face," I point out.

"When one is incompetent in one area, it seems to follow that they're incompetent in similar fields." 

I lower my voice and look around. I don't want to be playing games of verbal cat-and-mouse, and I don't want him to veer off-topic and start reminiscing about his days in the law office or his relationships or anything else he might have in store for me. "What  _happened_?"

Gavin smiles again, stretching his still bare arm and tugging down on the sleeve of his gown, irritated. It's then that I notice something; his apology about his hygiene and his inability to shower becomes apparent to me-- in all the time I've known him, this is the first time I've seen his fingernails in such a state. I'm fixated on them; they're torn and dirty, with something caught under them, pale and flakey and persistently there.

He places his hands under the sheet once he's adjusted himself.

"My recovery is taking much longer than I thought it would, that's all." 

I get the feeling that there's something he isn't telling me.

"I've heard that you've dropped the charges against Klavier."

He nods. "It's the only practical solution," he says calmly. "I believe my brother was going to suggest provocation and due to the fact that there were no witnesses to the event, it was my word, as they say, against theirs."

I sigh. I suppose the expression on my face suggests that I don't believe him. And I don't. Not entirely. Though I wonder what has the power to make him not tell me the truth. Is he like Engarde, tired and drained and sick of everything, pushed into not even caring about the truth any more because he knows he's been herded into a corner, or is it something else?

"Doctor," he says finally, "I appreciate the concern, but I will be fine."

"You don't want to talk about anything with me?" I ask. I try to smile for his benefit. "That'd be a first."

The smile I receive from him is pale and sad, and he closes his eyes. "May I ask a favour of you?" he says gently.

I raise my eyebrows. I'm expecting some sort of notation to be requested to be put on his file, a favour pulled with staff or the management-- the management I can not reason with right now.

 _I'm sorry, Mr. Gavin_. 

"Yes," I tell him.  _You can ask, but I may not be able to actually assist you._

I grit my teeth behind a shallow smile, hoping whatever he wants is possible.

He shifts uncomfortably again, rustling the sheets. "Would you be able to remove my glasses and place them on my bedside table, please?"

It's an odd request, but I suppose he doesn't want to move.

"I am feeling incredibly self-conscious about the state of my hands," he admits. "And I am becoming used to the routine of medication and rest time-- I will generally last about ten minutes before wishing to sleep for a spell."

I'm not sure what to do, but he looks at me, waiting. I feel my body pull back rigidly as I remember what has happened previous when I've been in close physical proximity to him-- my arms are pushed forward, as my hands carefully remove his glasses, folding them with a snap, and placing them, as requested, on his bedside table. One of the ends of the arms feels sharper than the other; something has caused the plastic coating on the tip of it to wear away, I notice as I gently put them down. 

I don't mention it. The last thing I want to do is draw his attention to the fact that I'm aware of his dishevelled appearance and his flaws, even if they're as insignificant as an edge on his glasses being imperfect. Gavin likes his dignity, and part of that dignity is maintaining his composure and appearance. I don't wish to cause him any distress.

There's a slight smirk on his face. "Were you worried that I may attempt to kiss you again?" he asks smugly.

 _Yes_. 

I don't reply to that, and he drops the subject. Perhaps he's offering me a little dignity, too.

"Might I request another favour, if you're to head back onto the unit?" 

I nod. I'm already expecting to know what it will be.

"Can you please tell Engarde to behave himself?" 

That wasn't quite the request I was expecting, and there are no hands on me, no disturbingly coy and interested expressions, no predatory touching, no double entendres or messages I don't really want to repeat-- nothing but quiet concern.

"Yes," I tell him.  _Not that he's listening to me any more._  Not that I'll mention that to him.

"Good," he says, shifting back into the bedding, squashing his head into the pillow. "I'll see you back there, then, doctor."

I take this as my cue to leave, and I catch one last glimpse at his bruised face, and step back. His eyes are closed and I suspect he's fading into sleep.

  
I still have unanswered questions, but I have found the answer to the main one-- I know where he is. I know that he's still alive. Right now, that's enough. I start to pull the curtain behind me and then curiousity gets the better of me-- whatever it is he's been dosed up with seems to act quickly. The medical professional in me wants to know what it is.

I shift around to the end of his bed and steal a look at the chart attached to the little clipboard which is hooked over the end of the bed. As I'd suspected, there's a new file, starting from Saturday afternoon. 

Mystery solved and confirmed: Gavin was lying to me. He  _was_  moved out of the hospital at some stage.  _Something_ , though I'm not sure what-- has happened to him in addition to his injuries from Klavier.

The second discovery is one which makes me gasp, but thankfully, he's asleep and snoring softly, his hair splayed out around him, the effect close to angelic. He doesn't hear my shock and my surprise, and he doesn't see me holding the file up, incredulously re-reading the signature next to the antidepressants he's been prescribed. He's due to have them after his lunch. He'll probably sleep through it anyway.

The signature is oversized and elaborate, and it's a signature I thought I wouldn't be seeing for awhile.

It appears in addition to all the other things no one's telling me, they've also failed to mention that Dr. Will Smeer has come back to work.

 

 

 

Lily grabs me as I'm heading down towards my office.

"Hamm's just told me something," she says quickly. "Waverley's talking to Gant about something in his office, and... well... I think you need to see Engarde."

I stop walking and turn around to face her. She looks worried, but with the sort of concern that makes me think that her fear is being hidden behind a more immediate need for action. She can stress about things later on.

"What's Engarde up to?" I ask. 

"Go have a look at him."

"He's not scheduled in for an appointment--"

"Look," she says. "Something really bizarre is going on. They moved Engarde out of isolation after he talked to Waverley and apologised and agreed to go on new medication--" She stops again. "I assume you knew about that."

"No," I tell her, but I'm pretty sure who prescribed the new medication. "I was in the hospital wing."

"Gavin's there," she says coolly. Obviously she's been up to visit him too. "But he's not saying much to me."

"Me either." 

The look of concern on Lily's face deepens. "That worries me," she says. "He used to act like he'd have spent all day talking to you if he could."

I don't say anything, but I nod, acknowledging the sentiment, trying not to think about it too much-- she's right, even though it's quite unnerving. 

"Do you think he was there all along?" I ask her.

"Nope." 

"Me neither."

"I have  _proof_ ," she tells me, as I blurt out that I saw his charts.

"There's that, too," she says, "But the tipoff for me was his nails."

I'd forgotten about the nails.

"He didn't get to have a shower this morning," she says. "And I looked at his hands-- I've never seen that scar everyone knows about, and I just...  _looked_. But-- did you see them? There were flecks of paint underneath them. Like he's been scratching at a wall-- and the walls near him are perfectly clean."

Suddenly, I've realised what's going on. "They moved him into solitary, didn't they?"

Lily's mouth opens in horror, as though a fear has been confirmed. "That was my suspicion, too."

"Has  _anyone_  been down there lately? You know--" My voice drops and I look around us in case someone else might be listening-- " _Officially_?"

"No," she says-- "I actually thought it was a bit  _odd_  that Waverley didn't move Engarde down there after he went nuts in the music room-- I just thought it was about dealing with the situation quickly even though Waverley doesn't seem very fond of Engarde--" Her eyes are huge and terrified. "This is  _bad_ ," she says. Then she smiles dryly. "At least, I guess, it means that neither of us are being paranoid."

I smile back at her weakly. "It's not paranoia if they are out to get you." Looking towards the unit, I ask-- "Where's Engarde?"

"I'll see if Hamm and I can get him up while Waverley's still in that meeting."

* * *

Engarde's scarred face is a collection of wrinkles and a broad, clown-like smile. His pupils are dilated and when he gets dragged into my office by Lily and Hamm, he wanders around, looking at the walls, giggling to himself.

"Sit down," Lily tells him sternly. "Have a talk to the doctor about what's going on." Hamm nods in agreement.

They both look at me, as Engarde stretches his hand out in front of him.

"Fuck," he mutters to himself in awe.

"Sit down, Engarde." Hamm walks towards my desk and pulls out a chair. 

Engarde ignores him.

"What's he been taking?" I ask.

"Who fucken knows?" Hamm asks. "But so much for Waverley's drug-free unit, right?" 

Engarde watches him and giggles, and then, hauntingly, stands up straight and looks into the distance, as though he's looking for the red light of a video camera aimed at his face. "Dude," he says to no one. "Drugs aren't cool. Drugs destroy lives-- the Nickel Samurai says NO to drugs." 

"Sit down, Mr. Engarde."

As though he's just realised where he is, he snaps out of it. 

"Hey, doc," he says, an uncontrollable smile interfering with his tone and making it difficult for him to concentrate on what he’s saying. "I think those meds are fucking with me."

"I think it might be something else, actually," Hamm says dryly. "Wanna tell us about it?"

"Nope." He giggles again and walks dopily over to the chair, sitting down clumsily. "You're all funny cunts, aren't you?"

Lily looks at me, still worried and nervous. "Are you going to be all right with him?"

He's as high as a kite, but he's docile and happy, it seems.

"I should be."

"Even after what happened on the weekend?"

On the weekend, from the sounds of things, he responded aggressively because he was feeling threatened. Right now, he's not threatened. The drugs may change that; I've seen that happen before, when people randomly snap when their state of comprehension of reality is somewhat warped. I glance at Engarde, who is looking down at his hand intently, and look back at Lily and Hamm.

"I think we'll be right," I tell them.

Engarde ignores them as they leave the room.

When they're gone, I study him carefully. He's still looking down at his hands, at the threads of silvering scars jutting out on the skin's surface, at the little red lines which seem to appear with regularity. 

"I'm fucked, aren't I, dude?" he asks quietly.

I take a deep breath and sigh. "I don't think drug use is going to help your situation, Mr. Engarde," I tell him softly.

"I'm gonna get fucking killed out there," he says, now looking up at me, his pupils two huge black holes. He looks scary, but I suspect he's perfectly harmless in this state. "Crescend's gonna go me because I knocked out his case worker, isn't he?" He blinks, his eyelids taking what seems like too long to close, and then he rouses himself awake. "Can I just go back to my room?" he asks. "Dunno why they brought me in here."

"We need to talk about what happened."

He giggles slightly. " _I_ ," he says slowly, "Got  _loaded_ , doc. Funny the things you can find in the mailroom. Timmy and I had a fucking field day in there, it was like someone had sent us an extra-special care package."

So he found the drugs while searching mail. That makes sense, but the fact that the staff didn't notice anything sets off alarm bells in my head. 

"Where were the staff when this happened?"

"I dunno," he says. "Tim and I just saw this package-- it was  _full_  of the shit, it felt funny-- and he looks at me, and,  _yeah, baby_ , there's acid tabs and white powder in there, so we split it and snorted it in a cupboard. No one saw anything."

"So where's Plan?" I ask.

"I dunno," he says sleepily, blinking quickly as though he's trying to keep himself awake. "The two of us split it but he didn't do as much as me..."

"Who was the package for?"

"Not telling."

"Mr. Engarde-- this is a security issue--"

"No it's not," he says with a chuckle. "There's no drugs on that unit coz Tim and I took care of that." He's still blinking.

"How much did you take?"

He doesn't answer me for awhile and lurches forwards, his hands clutching at his sides. He's rocking, in the chair.

" _When_  did you take these...  _substances_?"

He doesn't answer me, and he falls forward, instead, slipping off the chair, his forehead narrowly missing the end of the desk. 

I get on my radio and call a code white, medical emergency.

It seems like there are workers there in seconds. Moments later, a frantic call goes over the radio-- the unit's back on lockdown again, and Lily, Towne and Hamm are performing first aid on Engarde. Hamm reaches across my desk and grabs the phone, quickly connecting with the hospital's extension number. He asks that the workers bring a stretcher, and that Engarde needs to be brought down to the hospital wing after a suspected drug overdose. 

"He's still breathing," Lily tells us as Hamm hangs up and I look on cluelessly. "He's just--" 

There's a slight gurgle and he vomits white froth onto my floor. I wince, no one else moves. Lily's tapping his face, trying to get him to talk. "Engarde?" she asks, "Engarde?"

His eyes open and he groans, his tongue moving around his mouth. " _What_?"

"Do you know where you are?"

"I'm in the fucking slammer," he grumbles, sounding irritated amongst his delirium. "Where the hell do you think I am?"

Lily sighs with exasperation and the hospital workers arrive with the stretcher, pushing in at the door and sending it flying. Following them is a furious-looking Waverley.

"What's going on here?" he demands. He's staring at me, as though this is somehow my fault, and in a split second, I reply-- "Engarde just collapsed."

Waverley raises an eyebrow as Engarde is rolled onto the stretcher. I catch his eye for one moment, and there's a desperate  _please don't tell_  look of terror and misery from him, and I decide to be diplomatic.

"It appears he's had a reaction to something," I tell him. I can't help but throw in a testy "Apparently he's been put on new medication, and sometimes antidepressants can have a side effect of nausea."

"He's not on fucking Prozac," Waverley growls with enough severity to send Hamm and Lily into looking fearful and shirking away abruptly, "He's fucking  _high_."

As if to protest that, Engarde gurgles again, spewing more white foam onto the stretcher. He's quickly shifted from the room, delirious and trashed, but still thankfully alive. 

"Who ordered this?" Waverley snaps when they've gone. "And who ordered the lockdown on the rest of the unit?"

"I put through the medical call to the hospital," I tell him, annoyed. "There wasn't much else I could do."

"I told you that if any of these morons get drugs into them and they're ODing, they're just going down to isolation until they come good."

"Unless someone chokes on his own vomit and  _dies_ ," Lily grumbles. 

"What was that?" Waverley sounds panicked and terrifying. Lily is still crouched on the floor where she was next to Engarde, and she's glaring right back at him. 

"If Engarde  _died_ , wouldn't that cause a lot more paperwork for you?" she snaps. "And an investigation?"

"Engarde  _doesn't_  die," Waverley growls. "He's a human cockroach, he thrives under the shittiest conditions just to piss off everyone else around him."

  
Hamm grunts. "I know you don't like him," he says, "But what would Parke do if this happened?" He looks at me cautiously, like he's about to regret what he's going to say. "I think the doctor did the right thing here."

"Me  _too_ ," Lily says stiffly.

"Oh, you just want your little loverboys to be reacquainted in the hospital, don't you?" Waverley snaps. "Next thing you know, they'll have you making a formal submission for them to share a bed in there or something, won't you?"

"What the hell's that supposed to mean?" Lily is furious, and her eyes blaze angrily at him. Hairs have come loose from her ponytail and are standing up as though electrified. She looks ready to throw a punch and possibly a barrage of four-letter words. 

"I mean  _you_!" Waverley's yelling at her, and she's slowly standing up, the rage and intensity still on her face, forcing her features into sharp lines. "You female workers are so easily manipulated by these pricks-- all they have to do is be  _polite_  and you're letting them boss you around and you're doing favours for--"

It's Hamm who gets between the two, and I commend him for it. Waverley's looking like a man gone insane, Lily's looking like she's going to hit him.

I clear my throat and no one does anything. They're all standing there, like a weird little Mexican standoff, I'm very much aware of my mere observer status. It randomly occurs to me that it was probably a really good idea that I  _didn't_  take up deNong on the staff counselling position, because I have absolutely no idea what to do. 

"Perhaps we could talk about what's happened," I start to say, and Waverley turns to look at me, viciously angry-- "Perhaps there have been some communication issues recently--"

"Communication?" Waverley spits-- "Maybe someone could communicate to me why there are drugs on my unit and where they came from!”

"I believe it was the mail room," I say quietly. "What I'm failing to understand is how two inmates managed to access these drugs under staff supervision."

"Tona was in there!" Waverley yells. "Consider his ass fired."

"That's professional," Lily grumbles. No one else says anything. My phone rings, breaking the awkward and furious silence. I pick it up.

"Hello-- psychiatry office?"

" _Hi_." I can tell it's Smeer's smug drawl without him identifying himself. "I was wondering if Glenn Waverley would be available."

  
I look at Waverley and the others, and hand the phone towards him. At least Smeer called at the right time and has broken the tension somewhat. 

Waverley offers nothing on the phone other than a "Right," between murmured conversation I can't catch on the other end. Then there's something more jarring from the rest of the staff-- a code green called over the radio.

 _An escape_. To add further drama to the chaos and the confusion, someone's taken advantage enough to find room amongst it all to escape. I have no idea who or how, but it makes me painfully aware of everything they tell you in this job about being aware of things. 

You can never be too aware.

Everyone in the room jolts up; Waverley swears under his breath, grabbing his radio-- "Location, please"-- and a siren sounds in the background somewhere. As quickly as they all arrived in my office, they're all gone. 

If I was confused before this, that was nothing.

The yells coming from the unit overlap one another as I head through to the staffroom. I can't think in my office, and I have no work to do. 

  
Even if I did, concentrating on it would be close to impossible.

The siren shrieks behind me somewhere, and it isn't enough to drown out the yells from the inmates. 

"What the fuck gives, man?" 

"This is  _fucked_ \--"

"I didn't do nothin', man"--

I stride through the chaos, amidst doors being unlocked and thrown open. There's tension in the air, a danger which wasn't here before. Waverley's gone into panic mode, and is unlocking common rooms, indicating two staff to check each, and then throwing the doors of another room open. 

Like animals, they've smelled fear in the air, and they're all reacting. That's everyone, not just the screaming inmates, not just the prison staff. It's everyone, from Miss Graves who has appeared on the unit from her final tidy-up of the library; the books have all but gone but a few administrative things need fixing and part of me senses that she's just not ready to leave yet. She runs into Tona, who is frantically racing across the unit, a heavy-looking flashlight in his hand, his face pale and fearful. He pauses when he sees her, and I see her eyes widen with concern and disbelief. I watch from a distance, unable to hear them over the siren and the yells, and head for the door.

I'm at a complete loss. 

It's empty and yet  _full_  at the same time; the activity on the screens in front of me isn't from the inmates but the guards checking room after room, scurrying about like sugar-crazed ants, little black and grey blobs against the lino floor and the inoffensive painted walls. 

Coffee is going to do me no good. I sit down at the table, watching the chaos on the screens, hoping for something, anything, as reassurance. I have one comforting thought, and that's that it isn't Engarde who's escaped. He can't have. Not in his condition. 

I'm transfixed; every so often, things happen, but we've had nothing like this in a long time, and never as close to other events of insanity as this has been. I can feel the stress in my neck and back, and I lean down into a chair, hoping to relieve the tension. 

The relief I get only comes when the siren goes off, and then the room is flooded with radio static, calls after one another-- an alarmed voice-- "Code white, code white, mail room corridor-- man down--" and then the panic rises in me again.

"Code green cancelled, medical emergency, mail room corridor--"

"Roger that--"

"Assistance required immediately-- non-essential staff to return to the staff assembly area for briefing--"

I watch the cameras as dozens of ant-like figures congregate towards their ends of the screen, shifting towards one until they realise there are already staff there. White-coated figures, hospital staff, come running across the floor, and the figures disperse, moving towards the staff room. 

The door is thrown open violently, and it smashes into the wall. It feels like the room should shake, but nothing happens; there's just a bang and an increase in volume of the yells outside. 

"He's dead." Caster says it in shock, and everyone flooding into the room starts talking over and around him. 

I'm still staring at everyone, trying to gather my thoughts.  _Who's_  dead? No one's given a name, and my stomach churns violently, considering the state Engarde was in when I last saw him. Did something, or someone prevent him from getting to the hospital? How? Who was the escapee? 

"He's not dead," someone says, and I feel relief racing over me like a cool breeze. "He was passed  _out_."

"He was  _blue_. And how long had he been there?"

"No one's confirmed anything..."

  
"He's fucken  _dead_! I fucken  _saw_  him!" Field—Campbell Field, the Field brother who hadn't been assaulted by Engarde-- is looking at though he's seen a ghost. Everyone falls silent at his announcement-- maybe it's that he's a little bit louder, or more panicked, or that his voice somehow commands a specific level of anxiety in this situation. "I saw him-- he's  _dead_."

"Someone make some coffee or something--" someone else yells out over the commotion, as I hear someone grumbling about an investigation. 

"What happened?" 

I look at Miss Graves, whose normally calm face looks as though it's aged another twenty years. Her eyes are glassed over and beyond the fear is a look of disbelief. Her bottom lip trembles; she's seen death in here before, but not for awhile. And there's something particularly awful about this death-- if that's what it is, and in the pit of my stomach, I  _know_  that's what it is-- it's unexpected and a shock which fell on another shock-- certainly, she knew nothing of Engarde's overdose, but she'd have heard the panic surrounding that. Being here can be like working in a warzone; confusion and panic and unexpectedly gruesome moments, despite the steadfast desire to maintain order and to implement strategies. 

Belle normally looks like a woman who's seen everything, whose calm and demure nature can guide her through the worst. But right now, she looks old and frail and petrified. 

"I'll make you a coffee," I offer her-- in the panic, it seems like everyone else has forgotten everyone else-- "Have a seat."

She walks over to a chair and sits down, dazed and quiet. I make my way to the coffee tin, grateful to feel like I'm doing something, at least, momentarily distracted; and then there's a crackle over the public address system, which hasn't been used in so long that I'd forgotten about it.

I'm not the only one, judging from the way others in the room scatter and jump. Everyone's staring upwards, like the almighty himself is addressing us.

"Attention, everyone-- due to unforeseen medical emergencies on the unit this afternoon, I wish to advise each and every one of you that the unit is on lockdown until further notice." It's Waverley, from the top office, most likely. 

"Some alarming information has come to light this afternoon and following the advice given earlier in the week surrounding illegal activities in this prison, I must suggest that it's in your interests to be honest and forthcoming if you are aware of any wrongdoing in this facility." 

He's nervous. He's using a voice and phrases of authority, but he's not really saying anything. 

My mind goes to the worst places I can imagine, and I agree with Field-- someone's dead. This is the kind of panic which comes with trauma and exhaustion and the desperation Waverley has to pretend that he's maintaining order. 

"Interviews will be conducted tomorrow morning, and I must again stress that it is in all of your interests to cooperate, should you wish to see the interior of more than your own cells, for the remainder of your time here." He pauses, possibly for effect, possibly because he is lost for words. "And dinner," he continues, unable to ditch the smug, smartass arrogance-- "Will be served late. That is all."

An almighty roar; yelling, thumping, banging-- takes over the outside like the beginning of a thunder storm. We're no longer looking upwards, we’re staring at each other.

 

  
I don't think the reality of death has fully sunken in for most of us. The majority of the inmates, most likely, aren't even aware of what's happened, if the incredulous and slighted anger I heard earlier was to be believed. 

But the terror of a system wildly out of control has swept over the place, reaching all of us, like a cloud of horrible, toxic gas.

 

We sit and wait. There is the hum of half-started conversation which peters out into nothing, wisps of smoke lost in the air. Someone gets up and makes a cup of coffee. There are little noises and sounds, random, suggesting that we're still very much human and we're stuck in here, but beyond that, nothing happens. It's another capital-I  _incident_  on the unit. 

Smeer and Waverley walk into the staff room ten minutes later. Smeer looks visibly shaken and notices me, but says nothing. Waverley is red-faced and thick, dark veins have risen on his neck. He looks as though he's been roughed up, and his calm over the intercom is with him no longer.

" _That_  glorified soap opera was Timothy Plan being pronounced dead after what appears to be an overdose of drugs unidentified," he barks at the inhabitants of the staffroom.

A murmur of fear ripples the room, and Towne looks up at him. "You think you could have broken that to us more sensitively?" he asks in horrified disbelief. "He's one of my key clients."

"Sorry about that," Waverley says. There is no hint of apology in his voice. "But my  _sensitivity_  drives have been exhausted. It doesn't help when you know that while you come in, day after day trying to save these fucks from themselves, they just choose to shove who knows what up who knows where, and then you're left with a dead guy, an investigation, a bunch of pissed off inmates on lockdown, and a fuckload of paperwork."

He sounds exasperated and furious, and there's a long silence.

"The media are gonna jump on this one like diddlers on a first-timer," he grumbles. "Plan was a D-grade celebrity; the public have an interest in trainwrecks, and once again,  _we_  come under fire."

"Well how the hell did drugs get on the unit?" someone asks. 

"Beats the living  _shit_  outta me. You think I had you guys searching rooms-- you think I was doing searches on people-- for the  _fun_  of it?"

"They came in the mail." Field, since returned, looks guilty for having spoken. "I walked past the mail room earlier today-- I just  _knew_  something was going on, and I mentioned it to Tona."

"And you couldn't tell  _me_?"

"You had your radio off," Field says. He's turned pale and his eyes have grown huge. "And you were out of contact."

"This isn't a conversation for the entire staffroom," Waverley growls. "I'll see you in my office afterwards, while I'm rifling through paperwork and getting this shit sorted out."

"What do we do now?" Lily looks up at him. "From my understanding, we've got a number of inmates on obs and..."

"Do you want to go take care of those obs?" he asks her.

Lily nods, and leaves the room. When the door opens, there's more yelling; a few inmates have seen her step out onto the floor and are demanding to know what's going on. I feel sorry for her; he's sent her out into this mess by herself.

Smeer, I've noticed, stands silent and still, looking at everyone with the interest of an outsider peering in. Perhaps he's expecting someone to notice him and comment on his return; no one does. I suspect he could have been the medical professional who pronounced Plan dead, and over Waverley giving everyone the media pep talk, about how we're to politely decline interviews, about how we're to use the special exit, about how we're to carry on as normal-- I'm thinking. 

Timothy Plan, porn star, pretty boy, cocky arrogant puppet of Gant, a former associate of Engarde from a world entirely removed from this one-- is dead.

 

I think about my last encounter with Plan; he seemed to be settling down, he was wanting to stay off the drugs-- and yet he knew of their arrival. 

"Does anyone know what the drugs  _were_?" someone asks, and I'm wondering the same thing.

"Engarde was involved, wasn't he? Two ODs in the space of an hour-- coincidence, my  _ass_." It's Hamm who makes that statement, and Waverley grunts. 

"Thankyou for stating the obvious," he says. He pauses and stretches, calming down for the first time, it seems, since the incident began unfolding. "Anyone else see the irony in this faggot dipshit --who landed in here for accidentally killing someone with an overdose-- having the same thing happening to him?"

I want to retch. Perhaps if Lily was here, she'd have said something, but no one else does.

"Why didn't Engarde go to solitary?" It's Byrne, from the side of the room, looking confused and bothered. "Wasn't that the policy? Anyone caught using was meant to go to solitary, weren't they?" 

My heart stops for Lily, who'd conveniently ignored that, out of a sense of wanting to keep Engarde from getting in trouble. I'm privately glad, though my heart is racing. I'm glad she was dismissed to look after the obs-- I don't want attention drawn to her, I'm glad her eyes can't meet mine and both of us can't collapse under this pressure.

If Engarde had been left in solitary, with something in his system that killed Plan, he might not have returned alive from solitary. 

 _Lily_ , I think,  _You ignored orders, but you possibly saved someone's life_. I can't help but wonder why she failed to find Plan, though. 

"So what do we do?" Field pipes up. "Maybe if we can take care of this before the media and the investigation get in here--"

"I have paperwork to do," Waverley says. "Unit's on lockdown til I say it's not, mailrooom corridor's off-limits until the forensics have finished with it--"

"So we're going to be dealing with a few hundred people fucked off at not getting their mail," Hamm points out.

"I need to get onto maintainance; mail will come through the desk jockeys and I'll put on more staff to sort through it with them." It seems like an unnecessarily decent thing for Waverley to organise. "Last thing I need is some prick suing us because he misses his letter about a legal visit or a court appearance."

I forgot. Waverley isn't spontaneously nice.

"Is someone going to talk to Engarde?"

He gestures towards me. "After Engarde's little stunt with Dr. Smeer, and after his outburst the other day, he's just getting the doctor and the medical staff right now until I'm ready to have a word with him." His eyes narrow and he smiles nastily. "You might want to advise him to find himself a good lawyer, because if he's in any way responsible for what happened then, I'm making a case for him to spend the rest of his sentence in solitary."

I try to hide the look of horror which I can feel settling on my face.

"And if someone else was responsible?"

"I'll be talking to everyone involved," he says. "But Engarde's track record isn't good already-- he assaulted Denham and Field when we tried to remove him from the music room, he's been involved in--"

"He's been the victim more than the perpetrator of most of the incidents," Caster says. "At least, he was when I was working with him a couple of years ago, and he doesn't seem to have changed much since I got back from leave." He turns to me, frowning, unimpressed. "The kid's mind's rotted since he came in here-- wouldn't you agree with me?"

"Engarde is...  _complex_ ," I tell him, not looking at Waverley. "I don't doubt that he was using drugs with Plan, but at the moment, it's a question of  _causation_  or  _correlation_. For all we know, Plan might have given Engarde the drugs. Or someone else might have. Plan was the one who admitted that he was tempted before drugs even appeared on the unit."

"But Engarde is a shifty little prick," Waverley interrupts. "You know how you can tell when he's lying?"

"How?" asks Caster. I already know what Waverley is going to reply with.

"His mouth's moving." He looks back at everyone and snorts to himself, a twisted little glimmer in his eyes. "I mean  _talking_ , not the  _other_  kind of oral activity Engarde's famous for, either."

"I still wouldn't write off the possibility that he might be the clueless victim here," I say firmly, completely unimpressed.

I'm not sure why I'm defending Engarde like this. Perhaps because I know Caster is right, that Engarde has been significantly damaged since arriving here, and that leaving him in solitary isn't the answer to his problems or anyone else's.

"I  _know_  the deprivation of Engarde will probably send everyone's favourite serial killer into a tailspin," Waverley sneers, "But... Kristoph Gavin doesn't run this prison."

"Is that what this is about?" a voice asks from the back of the room. "Punishing Gavin?" 

Waverley goes red, again, getting angrier. "Matt Engarde, and any other drug-peddling scum-- poses a security risk to this environment." He looks at me again, and there's panic in his eyes. "Given the chaotic and unusual circumstances," he says-- "What's your spin on this, doc? What're they gonna do  _now_?"

Despite his desperate attempts at remaining in control, despite his sounding authoritarian, and despite his need for order, Waverley is a man completely confused by what's happening, I realise. And I'm annoyed that I'm being asked for advice like this: when Parke did it, it was private, it wasn't done as though I was being held up for an audience, and it was done respectfully.

"I'm not sure," I state. "Though I would advise against--"

"I'm not asking for  _advice_ ," he says with a sneer. "You're the seasoned professional here, you know how these guys think-- what's on the cards, doc?"

"I can't say," I tell him. In a small sort of way, I'm enjoying his frustration at me not being able to have the answers. "I'm just a prison psychiatrist. I'm neither psychic nor a criminal profiler-- I'm not here to pretend to be able to read the future." 

Across the room, there's a chuckle, and I turn around to see Hamm trying to hide his amusement.

"So I'm just supposed to let things happen as they do?"

I shrug. More murmurs come through the staffroom, and fed up, Waverley gives everyone a final glare. "We still need to feed them," he says-- "Field, I need to talk to you-- Byrne, you've supervised kitchen before, let's get these meals happening-- Tona, I need to talk to you,  _too_." I have a suspicion that Tona won't be fired until he's been squeezed dry of any information he might have. And that Waverley will make him wait-- saving the best bit of his day-- suspending someone-- for last.

"Everyone else-- hit the kitchen and let's get moving," he says-- "Towne, you're running the floor, I'll be in my office." 

People start moving and I'm watching, still shell-shocked at both the news and the reaction to it. Deciding to follow Waverley's advice, I make my way towards the hospital wing, hoping I'll find a wide-awake, fully-conscious and hoping to talk Engarde. 

 

 

Going to the hospital turns out to be a waste of time. Gavin is asleep and Engarde is passed out, hooked up to monitors, a drip sticking out of his arm.

"Any word on when Gavin's being returned to the unit?" I ask the on-duty nurse, a woman I've never seen before. She shrugs. I wonder if it's occurred to her that Gavin potentially  _could_  malinger and try to prolong his visit, particularly if he's aware that Engarde is now sharing the ward with him. Probably not; the hospital staff seem largely unaware of the interactions between the inmates. 

I look towards where Engarde's bed is. "Any word on why Engarde's so sick?"

The nurse looks at me witheringly. "Pathology's said it's a cocktail," she says dryly. "You know what they're like here, a bit of crack here, some tranquilisers there, a little battery acid and washing powder thrown in for good measure..." The tone in her voice suggests an attitude similar to Waverley's; he's a user, he's a loser.

I want to ask her if she knows anything about Plan, but I realise my answers to his death lie with official reports, with an investigation, with the coroner's office. And this is way, way beyond my responsibility. Like the rest of the staff here, I can only wait for official results.

I head back down to my office, spending a long time staring at my computer screen.

 

* * *

Lily slips into my office like a ghost. I'm absorbed in reading company emails when she arrives; there's the subtle  _click_  of the door unlocking, and I look up, momentarily startled as it closes quietly behind her.

She moves like a ghost, and she  _looks_  like a ghost, her usually neat hair straggled and messy, her eyes big and vacant, with dark circles underneath them. 

"What's happened?" I ask. I shut the computer down, thankful for the distraction-- the last thing I was reading was an email from deNong, who's already been notified about Plan's death, warning us to stay away from the media.

Lily doesn't say anything, but her mouth opens like she wants to. Instead, she gives a little nod, and just says "Walk me to my car?"

We leave together.

 

  
She doesn't start talking until we're in the car park, and that's when the flood she's been containing breaks forth. 

"I have to get out of here," she says desperately, in a quiet, maddened whisper. "This place is going to kill me." 

I raise an eyebrow, once again thinking about deNong's suggestion that I work as a staff counsellor. I vaguely wonder if people would be telling me things like this if they knew I was talking to everyone else here, and suspect that they wouldn't.

All the more reason to have just signed the fucking contract, I suppose. Too late to, now, though.

"What's happened?" I ask again, leaning in towards her. Her voice drops to something so low that it's barely even a whisper, and she sounds more trapped and damaged than she ever has before. And it frightens me: this is Lily, who's been a hard ass and a survivor, this is Lily who takes shit from no one. And now I can hear the scrape in her voice which suggests a sore throat from crying, and I wonder what the hell's happened. I stiffen with anger, already, and possibly unfairly suspecting that Waverley hasn't gotten over his sexual harassment proclivities.

"I can't leave," she says. "This place is a pit-- I'm stuck here until I'm permanently damaged and I get laid off or until I die." There's bitterness in her voice. "It sucks you in and it gradually destroys you until you become everything you swore you wouldn't when you started working here." There's a determination in her voice, to get through the next sentence without crying again, and the anger turns to fear. Maybe the monster isn't Waverley. Maybe it's  _her_.

"What  _happened_? Was it Waverley again? Did one of the inmates do something?" I'm searching for an answer that might possibly absolve her. I like Lily; she's a good person. She's a good worker. I don't want to think of her somehow being part of the problem.

 

"I know what happened to Gavin," she tells me quietly. "I think I know why he's not talking, too." She sucks in her breath, not looking at me. "Tell me," she asks quickly, "When you look at us, the staff-- do you analyse us? Do you ever think there's anything  _wrong_  with us?" 

  
She's rambling in that same, distorted sort of way that Redd White did when I last saw him, and I get a flash of that desperation, there's the same pitch in her voice even though it's  _quieter_ , that hits me, and I'm feeling an evil surrounding me which is nothing short of awful. 

"Sometimes," I say, "But I don't really go looking."

"Is that because you're scared of what you might find?" 

She's made a good point. More accurately, though, it's because I'm preoccupied with the clients themselves; the damaged and unpredictable Engardes, the Crescends and their orbitting anger and want for calm, the Gavins and their mind games and the structure of everything tying them together in this mess. And then there are the daily servings of mundane; the court reports, the evaluations, the recommendations, the medications.

"Not really," I tell her.

"Waverley isn't just corrupt," she says. "He's  _evil_. I don't think he has a conscience."

I nod, not saying anything. 

"What's he done now?" I ask. I'm at the point where if she asks, I might just offer to be a witness if she's planning on going to the union about his behaviour. "Has he been threatening you ag--"

"Remember the meeting?" she asks. "When it was  _suggested_  that it was an odd coincidence that Waverley went all hot and strong on drug use in the unit, as though he knew drugs were going to show up?"

I nod. I'd wondered about that, too, but I'd been distracted too much to go investigating. 

"Either he got those drugs into the prison, or he knows who did," she says. "And when I was doing the rounds and handing out dinners, I noticed there seemed to be a light on in the passageway leading to the mailroom."

I suck in my breath, expecting that I'm going to know what's coming.

"He was in there," she continues. "I'm sure he's going to argue that he was cleaning up a potentially hazardous environment even though  _legally_ , it's a crime scene. He came back to the kitchen afterwards to chew us out asking which one of us brought drugs into the prison because there were no unopened packages in there-- I think he's going to pin it on Tona." She sucks in her breath again. 

"There's no evidence suggesting he did." I hope I sound reassuring.

"There's no evidence he  _didn't_ , and he was supervising in the mail room," she says. "He's going to use him as a scape goat here-- and Tona's a good kid-- he doesn't  _do_  anything like that."

"Tona can get the union behind him and a lawyer," I tell her. "If he gets fired-- I don't think Waverley can actually do that."

"He could through deNong, couldn't he?" She's looking at me now. "I swore I wouldn't put myself out for anyone in this job, but--"

"Maybe you won't have to," I tell her. "Maybe the investigation will turn up something that suggests that Tona had nothing to do with it."

"It's not just Tona," she continues, and looks as though she's about to regret what she's about to say. "And I'm not winding up in the welfare line for one of  _them_." She pauses. "Call me a bitch, but I've got rent to pay and a mechanic to sort out," she says. "It's not like I can walk into another job that pays this much and gives me this much overtime any time soon." She sighs, smiling sardonically, the first time she's smiled today. "I'm too old for pole-dancing and I don't have experience bartending," she blathers on-- "But what's happened to Gavin-- and now Tona--"

"What's happened to Gavin?" I ask.

Her neck jerks towards me, as though she just realises she's forgotten to include the punchline of a joke. "You know how they're repainting the cells down in solitary...?"

I didn't know that. I knew they were off-limits and that Waverley seemed reluctant to send anyone there-- 

"They were?"

"Don't you  _think_ \--" she asks stubbornly-- "That for cells so  _new_ , it's a bit early to be refurbishing them?"

I just nod, in agreement. Minor works; repainting, fixing dripping taps-- seem to take forever around here, especially when other things, such as, for example, the faulty electrical system-- need to be repaired first. Graffiti and cosmetic damage are expected in a prison.

"Waverley contracted friends of his to repaint them, it seems," she says. "Which is why it's happened so quickly."

"How do you know?"

"Because he asked me to let the painters out-- you know how he's into making me do all the pissy little mundane jobs no one else wants to do around here?" 

Her voice is rising, she's angry now rather than scared. It drops again, as she continues. In the distance, I see silhouettes crossing the car park, talking and laughing amongst themselves. They're workers from another unit, I don't recognise them or their long, distorted shadows cast across the concrete by the street lights illuminating the lot. But we both know that you can never be too careful here; people know people-- and we don't say anything until they're well out of the way.

"One of the painters commented to me that it hardly seemed worth it repainting the whole block for one name scratched into a wall, and that's when I clicked-- Gavin's  _fingernails_ \-- That's what that stuff was under his fingernails--  _paint_ \--"

"Did the painter tell you what the name was?" 

"Did he  _have_  to?" She looks at me, unimpressed. "Who else has been down there lately?  _No one_. Not officially-- but Gavin had the time and the fingernails to make sure someone knew he wasn't in the hospital all that time, didn't he?"

"Why would he--?" 

"And I'm no doctor, but he somehow gained  _more_  injuries while he was supposedly in hospital than he had when he first went in there," she spits out in a hiss. "I'm pretty sure the nurses weren't beating him up while he was asleep."

 

My mind skips to Matt Engarde and his apparent ability to graze half his face and strangle himself.

I'm glad I'm not the only one who'd suspected as much, but the confirmation is terrifying.

And Lily just stares at me. "It's my paranoid, crazy,  _vindictive_  rambling against the word of a manager," she says quietly. "So whatever I say, no one's going to take me seriously-- but it's not  _right_." There's a rising anger in her voice again. "You believe me, don't you?" she asks quickly.

"I think so." I nod. Disagreeing with her will hardly help the situation, anyway, and I'm curious. "But why would he take Gavin out of the hospital and leave him in solitary?"

"I think I know  _why_ ," she says. "My question is who was helping him and who helped him cover it up?"

She has a point. The nurse on today wasn't Ree, who'd been there while Gavin was earlier on. Did Waverley know about staffing timetables in the hospital wing, or did Nurse Ree take time off for some reason related to him?

I have a suspicion, but I don't want to mention it. The fact that Smeer was back, and that he'd prescribed a heavy dose of antidepressants to Gavin is suggestive enough to me. But I wonder if other staff were involved-- surely Gavin wouldn't have voluntarily walked down to solitary by himself?

  
I sigh. I'm almost hoping this  _is_  paranoia, because it means I have a lot less to be concerned about.

"Why do you think Waverley would do that?" I ask her gently. Not in a condescending, disbelieving manner, but in a tone which suggests that I still need some confirmation.

"Simple," she says. "If Gavin were to sue the prison management for what happened to him during the variety show, Waverley would be under fire, wouldn't he?"

"But that happened when Parke was still here."

"But deNong would probably be held liable, too. If Waverley's convinced him to keep his mouth shut, Waverley could be looking at a promotion when one comes up."

She's right. It all fits together, though where the drugs come in doesn't, and I can't help but bring that up.

"So what about the drugs and Plan and Engarde?"

"I dunno," she says, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. "But I'm pretty sure he's mixed up with that somewhere. It's too coincidental."

"Just like there's no evidence to get Tona for what happened, there's none tying Waverley to the whole situation, either. For all we know, Tona-- or someone else-- might have brought something in. Engarde and Plan might have been bribing someone-- We know Engarde's had a habit of using  _certain_  means to bribe staff for things in the pas--" 

"I don't buy it," she says stubbornly. "Loath as I am to say it, Engarde has been clean since Gavin showed up, and..." she stops, uncertain, like she might regret what she's about to say. "I think Gavin would hit the roof if he found out that Engarde was using." The expression on her face changes to one of confusion. "I know I don't like him or find him particularly pleasant to deal with, but I think underneath all his disturbing interaction with Engarde, he actually gives a shit about him." Her voice hardens. "Maybe it's just that Engarde is  _useful_  to him-- and useful to him when he's  _straight_ \-- I don't know. Perhaps he's got Engarde scared somehow-- maybe he doesn't care about Engarde but Engarde cares about  _him_... I'm not sure." She looks at me as though she's expecting an answer, for me to confirm or deny any of her theories. "I don't get it. Gavin freaks me out-- he bothers me."

"I think he bothers _a lot_ of people." 

"There's something off-kilter about him," she says-- "Usually when they come in here, you wait a few months, and their true colours come out and you make of them what they really are... Remember Armando? He was all silent and stoic until he settled and he was just a big placid flirt-- Atmey seemed so charming and silly and then when the riot happened, he just became an angry loser with none of the followers he believed he had-- Moreau was desperately trying to prove was a hardass he was until he settled and everyone just realised he was a geek in his own world--" The reminiscence stops. "But Gavin-- I don't think we've really  _seen_  what lies beneath with Gavin. He's still putting up a front-- I think the closest we came to seeing the real Gavin was that night when he assaulted Wellington." Her voice is now uneasy, and I see what she's saying.

Except, maybe I  _have_  seen the real Gavin, and that's why she needs to run these theories about him past me. Because I know the real him, I've seen it. Many a time, I think, when he's felt comfortable and  _listened to_ , as though there's a reason for him to put forth more than a mask or a facade or a defensive stance.

Lily looks at me blankly, realising that I haven't responded. "Do you think he actually loves Engarde-- as much as he can love someone, anyway-- or that he's just using him in the same way that men like Gant and Waverley use one another?"

She's put me on the spot.

"I don't know." And I don't any more. I'd like to think not, that somewhere under Gavin's coolness lies a protective edge, but... what if-- what if Lily is onto something? What about the idea that I might be seeing something special between myself and Gavin so that I can feel important?-- the last week has shown me how unimportant I am in the grand scheme of things.

"I've thought about him a lot," she says with a sigh. "Too much, most likely-- he's one of those cases you can't help but take home and think about after you're out of your uniform and when you should be reading a book or watching TV." She smiles slightly, and again, it's a dry, sardonic smile. "You find yourself doing that?"

 _I find myself dreaming about him_...

"I think we can all get a bit wrapped up in our work," I tell her. "It's not just you." I smile weakly, part of me wanting to tell her that I know what she means and another part of me almost hating her for throwing these hideous, honest spanners into the works. If they  _are_  truths-- and if they're not, it's just another body joining the clusterfuck of the politics of this place. If she  _is_  being honest and I haven't picked it, isn't this just me being paranoid?

 

I'm not sure how to reassure her that everything's going to be all right, because I'm not sure that it  _is_  any more. But knowing what I do now from her-- assuming it can be true (and it  _has_  to be, I tell myself, it makes  _sense_  and Lily's always been honest with me and...), all I want to do is talk to Gavin himself and find out what really happened from him. Maybe the drugs and Waverley are connected somehow, maybe I can--

Another shadow lurches across the ground, and both of us look up. We've been out for half an hour; evidently Waverley's decided to go home. 

Lily sees him; the gruff, burly swagger in his walk still manages to be obvious in the movement of the shadow, and she swears quietly under her breath and looks at me. Both of us know that our time is up now.

We watch as he shifts past, thankfully not appearing to notice us standing together, and when he's gone, there's a shared sigh of relief, but the fear isn't quite abated. "I need to go home," she says. "I think after today, I need an early night and a good sleep." 

I smile at her, and give her a weak, helpless wave.

  
I walk to my car first, and watch from the window as she finds her own. And I wait until her engine's started and she's pulling out of her space, just in case she's right about Waverley having sociopathic tendencies.

  
I drive home with no radio on, with a full, huge moon, heavy-looking and yet deceptively comical, leaning into the sky and past the horizon. It should look beautiful; I remember seeing the moon looking like this once when I was a kid, and marvelling at it until I was told to go inside and to bed. I was disappointed when I couldn't see its enormity and its eerily golden glow from my bedroom window-- it was too low down, too dull despite the deceptive brightness-- for me to see from our upstairs apartment.

Driving home, I realise, the moon is making me feel sick. Like I could drive off the end of the road and plough straight into it.


	26. Ex, Drugs, Rock 'n Roll

"Now, folks--" Waverley doesn't sound pleased as he addresses us in the staff room-- "Once again--" He says it like it's all our fault-- "we're going to be having some visitors from our highly esteemed police force." He waits for any comments and there are none. "I hope you make them all feel very welcome and assist them where they need it."

  
He doesn't sound pleased. He sounds tense, and the tension is pushed out in the form of sarcasm, and I wonder if he's aware of the fact that his own secrets might come to light in amongst all of this mess-- either his own little less-than-honest or thorough activities-- or outright corruption.

Fear can drive people to rage. Waverley looks like he's barely containing both.

"When's Parke coming back?" someone randomly asks.

"I don't fucken know." He starts pacing, growling, like a lion awaiting its breakfast in a zoo enclosure. "And right now that's not a key issue-- I don't run things the way he does, that nice, feel-good family movie touchy-feely crap-- I want us to get back to business, to get this investigation sorted, to get to the bottom of this shit and--"

"Where's Tona?" Hamm is angry. I can't see him from where I'm sitting, but I can hear the irritation in his voice. 

"Tona is on leave." 

"On leave like Parke, or on leave like something else?" 

" _Stress_  leave," Waverley says ominously.

"Don't the cops need to talk to him?" 

It's interesting, seeing Waverley challenged like this, publicly, and it gives me some vague hope. Waverley, unquestioned and supported by the bulk of the staff would be more dangerous than Waverley, being called out like this in front of everyone.

He clears his throat and pushes his chest out. "Tona's issues are between management and the union and his lawyers," he says curtly. "Now, if we can continue..."

There's a rumble amongst us; some of it seems directed towards Hamm, some towards Waverley. Some of the discomfort appears to be about the investigation: we don't like outsiders coming in. 

 

  
Some of that's for good reason: an investigation prompts results, and no one, at the end of the day, wants a quiet shrug of "nothing to report." There's apprehension; when an investigation happens,  _something_  is going to get turned up, some controversy will be revealed-- and if one isn't found, they'll just look harder. Even if one doesn;t arise, the threat of one arising remains; we only know we're in the clear weeks after the police have left. Jobs could be placed on the line, management restructures could occur. There's no better way to divide a united front than to bring in the stress of outsiders watching us. 

"We're going to be conducting interviews in relation to the drugs on the unit and Plan's death," he says. "The police will decide who they want to talk to, and I'll require officers to escort inmates to offices around the prison. We're  _not_  limiting the interviews to one room or office given the security concerns; once these clowns realise they're doing interviews and there are cops on the floor, someone's gonna plan  _something_."

"Any word on the cause of Plan's death?" It's Field, sitting to my right. I feel for him and I can't help but turn my head in his direction; his voice sounds so drained and heavy. He's had a rough week; his brother still hasn't returned to work after the assault from Engarde, and one of his key clients has died. 

"The report said he asphixiated after falling unconscious," Waverley says. "And that's what the media are going to hear if they get their grubby little paws on this-- according to our sources, he overdosed on a combination of drugs."

"Combination?" 

"Smack and cocaine, probably," Caster says with a shrug.

Waverley chuckles dryly. "They're the least of it," he continues. "None of this was official-- apparently there was a wider variety of shit in the stuff he was taking than you'd find at a B-grade celebrity 'do. Most of it was home manufactured, they believe, and some of that Deuce shit the kids are getting into nowadays was in there, too." He sounds like he doesn't quite believe it. "Anyone heard of that stuff? I sure as shit hadn't until I was informed of it."

There are a few nods. 

"It's been in the papers," says Byrne. "It's hallucinogenic-- sends people out of their minds--"

"Okay, enough about what you get up to on your days off-- what we need to find out is how the fuck it got in here and if there's any more floating around."

He's mellowed slightly, seizing control from Byrne and shutting down a potential sidetrack. "Unit's on lockdown til the investigation's over."

Well,  _that_  certainly makes my morning a bit quieter. 

  
The morning alarm, unaware of the change in circumstances, sounds, and there's the distinctive clatter and creak and thunk of mugs against the sink as everyone spills out onto the floor. The tension in the air is anything but relieved. The impending visit from the police-- and Waverley's stress-- has made it worse.

 

 

* * *

I take my free morning to visit the hospital. Gavin and Engarde have managed to avoid lockdown; they're in their own little self-contained world upstairs, and they're likely unaware of the chaos on the unit. And I have this unquenchable need for some conversation from them, for answers-- answers they're unlikely to offer anyone else. Of course, I'm unlikely to get them, too, but a slim chance is better than none.

  
"Hey, dude." Matt Engarde is at least looking up from his position on the bed. He smiles at me as I approach. He seems too happy for someone in his predicament, and I wonder if anyone's actually told him about what has happened on the unit.

"Hello, Mr. Engarde." 

"Why the sad face?" he asks. "You look like someone  _died_."

No one's told him. I can feel something awful and acidic bubbling in the back of my throat, and I regret visiting the ward now; either I get to be the schmuck breaking the news to him that Plan is dead, or he'll find out later and I'll be the schmuck who didn't tell him.

"You look awfully perky compared to how you looked last time I saw you," I say neutrally, hoping to get him back to talking about himself. 

His voice sounds perky but he looks like shit. Dark smudges of bruising line his eyes, making the thicker scars on his face look like pale, flat slugs. Both of his eyes are bloodshot, and his skin is deathly pale. Where I can't see veins, I can see silver-white scarring graduating down to more immediate redness. I notice the wound on his arm. He notices me looking at it.

"I did that with a paperclip," he says with a shrug. "They cut my nails."

The perkiness has left his voice; he's a scared little mess who might be starting to realise just how crazy he is and how this is actually problematic. And someone's taken it upon themselves to deprive him of the one piece of control he had available to him.

I suck in my breath. "Mr. Engarde," I say, my tone hopefully conveying seriousness-- "Right now you need to be letting your body heal. You don't need to be making it worse."

The scratches are superficial, but there's a glimmer in his eyes. "I could have  _died_ , someone said," he tells me. 

I pull up a plastic chair near the bed and look at him. "Do you really  _want_  to die?"

He blinks, his brown eyes, bloodshot but still compelling, the one part of him which seems to shine through in spite of the damage he's done to the rest of his body, are looking confused and woeful. I'm not convinced he wants to die. He just wants the pain to go away.

And suddenly he's angry. "I wanted to die after that shit Plan gave me fucked me up," he says. "I lost  _days_. I dunno what happened. I was lying in here and they had me strapped to the bed and I think Waverley came in and he told me that Gavin was dead and then I thought I heard him and I wondered if  _I_  was dead, and--"

I can't let this conversation continue without telling him the truth. It's not fair. 

 

It's also not my role to tell him anything, but I've been falling down the slippery slope of unprofessional for some time now. This probably won't hurt anything, and it's building back-- or trying to build back-- important client trust in me. 

  
"Has any body talked to you about Timothy Plan?" I ask timidly.

"What about him? That he's a greedy fucking cunt who ripped off more than half our stash and shafted it to sell on the unit."

This is news.

"What was that?"

Engarde's voice drops down to a dull whisper. The anger's still twitching on his face, but there's something smug there as well. "I suppose someone'll get one hell of a surprise when they cavity search him and find out the guy on the unit with all the drugs was the guy who, you know,  _was a drug dealer on the outside_." 

I don't know how to break it to him, but I'm irritated. I shouldn't be irritated, I should expect that death, in this place, is no big deal, and far from the worst thing that could happen to someone. And that loyalty counts for more than death-- if someone betrays someone, they may have signed their own death warrant. 

Still, I remember the last time I spoke with Plan, his uncertain, serious manner, the fact that he was scared of falling back into drug use. That he didn't want to. 

And yet he succumbed to it. There's brutal tragedy in watching someone die fighting against the tide.

"Mr. Engarde," I say gently. "Timothy Plan is dead."

  


I don't know what sort of reaction I'm expecting. Remorse? Horror? Denial?

I get hardened cynicism. Engarde's face screws up and he tilts his nose upwards slightly, assuming a defensive pose. "You're not pulling that shit Waverley pulls to get me to talk are you?"

"No."

He opens his mouth and shuts it again, and that's his moment of mourning or scandal or shock. And then the bitterness returns to his face and his voice. "Serves him fucking right," he says. "When we were using, he said we'd split it two ways. Half for him, half for me. And in the darkness, I couldn't see what was happening. I knew he was shafting something and he used more than me and--"

"I'm being serious," I tell him. "He's  _dead_."

And that's when his voice drops. "Gant killed him, didn't he?" he asks. 

"Right now an investigation is underway, Mr. Engarde--"

"But that's about the staff, right?" His voice is speeding up and rising. "That's about who was there, or wasn't there-- when it happened. That's about duty of care and stuff-- that's about those fucking staff not doing their jobs properly and not watching things like when White necked himself."

 _No it's not, Engarde_.

"Or it's about them turning a blind eye on  _purpose_ ," he spits angrily. He's getting worked up, sitting up straighter, arms tense, defensive.

The thing is, he sounds like he believes what he's saying.

"Why would you believe that Gant killed him?"

"Because Gant said he'd kill anyone for running drugs under his nose." He shrugs limply, his body like floppy rubber as hie shoulders move. "Or using-- Gant wants a drug-free unit." He eyes me suspiciously again. "If there's an investigation, why am I talking to you and not some  _cop_?"

"Because the police haven't made their rounds yet," I tell him. I feel weary and drained already. I'm craving coffee.

"I don't believe you." He folds his arms, sitting up straighter. And I decide to drop it, to give up there. 

"Okay, Mr. Engarde," I say calmly. "That's fine-- though I would like to ask when I've given you reason to not believe me." His recent spate of uncooperative angst towards me stings. It shouldn't, but it  _does_.

He glares at me from the bed and I turn to walk away.

"Wait--" he calls back. I want to groan. Typical actor, wanting a pivotal not-quite-exit scene.

I say nothing, but look at him.

"I mighty talk to you," he offers coyly.

"I'm not interested in bribes or...  _favours_."

He smirks. In return for information, I'd be the one owing  _him_. Evidently the same disturbing thought that's occurred to me has occurred to him.

"I heard the nurses talking about Gavin," he says. "Is he still in here?"

Before I can think about the smart way to answer that question, I blurt out the answer.

 

Engarde sits up, smiling again. "I want to talk to  _him_ ," he says. "I've missed him." 

"I under--"

"You  _don't_." The smirk has changed to a look of desperation. "You don't know what it's like," he says in that low, dark voice. "You haven't known him like  _that_ \-- you haven't been screaming and crying and blowing your load all at once because of him. You haven't laid in bed next to him while he's digging his nails into your back and telling you how he's going to fuck you later on. You haven't seen him licking your blood off his fingers and--"

"Mr.  _En_ garde--"

He's trying to shock me with the sex talk. I've seen them do it before; next comes a complaint about how they haven't had any for  _x_ ,  _y_ ,  _z_  months. 

Maybe just when I think I've heard it all and am past being shocked, something challenges that self-perception.

He doesn't look impressed at being cut off, and his voice drops again; it's only in comparison that I'd noticed it had grown louder. "I'm  _crazy_ , right?" he asks, sounding almost tired, and back to desperate. 

I don't know what to say to that.

He blinks at me with those puppy dog actor eyes, combing his fringe away from them, the fresh paper-clip cuts on his arm clearly visible and on display. He doesn't just sound desperate any more, but utterly pathetic.

"He's the only one who stops me getting crazier."

 

 

 

I'm grateful to Nurse Ree when she shows up at Engarde's bed, a tray in her hands which grabs his attention.

"Breakfast in bed?" she asks, somewhat dryly.

Food has distracted him for the moment, and he flashes a smile, confident and cocky, surprisingly different to the man whom I was talking to. I find myself wondering if he's malingering, if this is all an elaborate ploy at manipulation, if somehow Gavin's inspired it and discussed strategies with him. 

"Thankyou," he tells her, sitting up some more, still wearing that movie star smile as he adjusts himself and the tray is placed on the moveable table hanging over the bed. He grins at me, smiling in my presence, and I get the impression it's all an act for an adoring audience.

Nurse Ree smiles at him. "I'll be back soon with your meds-- you enjoy that, okay, Engarde?"

Even she's in a good mood today. Perhaps it's a morning thing.

  
I pull her aside as we leave Engarde to eat his meal, and she looks grateful, the smile suddenly gone.

"He needs to go into protective," she says gravely. "Or they need to shift him to another facility, somewhere much more experienced in dealing with complex clients like him." 

I raise my eyebrows and say nothing.

"Every time he comes back here, he's worse," she goes on. "Like a little bit more of him has died off and been replaced with the crazy."

That stings too, as much as Engarde's demands that I'm one of  _them_  did. It's like she's telling me that I haven't achieved anything with him-- but I glance over my shoulder at him, happily munching on a piece of toast and tearing an orange juice container open with relish, and look back at her. 

She's right though. And what Engarde himself has said about Gavin staving off his craziness worries me. Because Gavin may not be infallible, I think, through either his own behaviour or someone else's. I shudder at the thought-- I cannot imagine Gavin dead or dysfunctional any more than I can imagine Engarde cured of his problems.

"Any word on when he's getting out?" I ask.

"After the doctor's seen him, we'll know," she tells me. "I'm more concerned about his buddy across the room-- and management have...  _encouraged_  us to keep them separated. Which is no easy feat when Gavin's able to walk around quite comfortably-- he's just less time-consuming than Engarde is, so it's no secret who we'd rather hang onto for awhile."

"So you believe that Gavin is in good enough health to return to the unit?"

"Yes." Her voice is tight and irritated. "He's not at all unmanageable-- he's one of the better behaved patients I've come across here." She glances in the direction of his bed. "I actually find it hard to believe that he did what he did..." She sounds uncertain. "I hate to say it, but from his presentation, he seems more like one of the old school career crims-- or a diddler." She quickly cuts herself off, as though the thought is too grotesque to contemplate. She obviously hasn't heard about his interactions with his little brother and I'm not going to compromise his privacy by correcting her. "He's just so  _polite_. Easygoing. Willing to cooperate. I just can't imagine him getting angry... or  _violent_."

She's warmed to him. I suppose she's not used to having patients who are there for longer than a few days and who are fully conscious, and I suspect the vast majority of the ones who are aren't the kind of charming conversationalists that I know Gavin is. I've heard about some of the other inmates fixating on the nurses or flirting with them excessively, making them awkwardly uncomfortable or outright disturbed. Gavin flirts in an asexual sort of way, where it's more about him lavishing dignity and interest on his subjects-- his sexual orientation gives him an air of the unreachable; he's delightful fantasy material, I suspect. 

Well, he is until one is allowed in beyond the facade-- Lily and I understand the reality. There is no point in sullying a fantasy, though, especially since Ree and the other nurses will never know him beyond being a polite and charming patient. 

"I suppose everyone has the ability to cross seemingly uncrossable lines," I say vaguely, and the phone rings from the nurses station. 

"I have to get that." Ree rushes away.

  
I contemplate visiting him once more; I probably should, to discuss the idea of returning to the unit with him, to see how he's doing. But Ree rushes back to me. 

"That was Waverley," she says, "He needs you on the floor for the interviews." 

I nod, unimpressed. Low staff numbers have probably meant that I'm needed to step in as a professional for something. Unless the police wish to talk to me about what happened. I hope not.

"Tell Mr. Gavin I'll see him later on, then."

She smiles. "Sure."

 

 

I watch what's going on around me as I make my way out to the floor. I can't see Waverley anywhere and I take that as a sign that I can probably get away with diverting to the staff room for my all-important coffee before the throbbing headache sets in.

My name is Doctor-- well, you get the idea-- and I'm an-- I can admit to this-- addict. I'm so used to my daily grind, I drink coffee so frequently that that I've forgotten about what happens when I don't. But I can feel the little twinkles, the nerves and receptors starting to tap their fingers impatiently, demanding their needs be met. 

I need that coffee. 

Field practically jumps as I open the door. Perhaps I pushed on it a bit too excitedly.

 

"Sorry," I tell him, and his mouth opens and shuts as he places his coffee cup down on the table as I grab myself a plastic mug from the cupboard and start filling it. 

"I thought it was Waverley," he says, calming down. "He's already asked me to ask Campbell to not bring the union in about what happened to him."

"How is he?" 

"He's been doped up on painkillers after his face swelled up," he says. "Engarde fucked him up pretty bad; he bit the inside of his mouth when he went down and required stitches."

"I'm sorry--" 

"The thing was, though, from the sounds of it, Waverley just escalated the whole mess. He should have had Campbell and Denham deal with getting Crescend out of there rather than worrying about Engarde flipping out-- I mean, Engarde loses his shit all the damn time-- if they'd just got Crescend out and shut the door and called in the SORT guys, none of this would have happened."

"Was Waverley in there, too?"

" _Yes_." He grits his teeth as he says his name. "He was  _taunting_  Engarde, apparently, and threatening him, telling him he was gonna get searched again-- and Engarde went nuts." Field runs his hand through his hair. "Of course-- yeah-- it looked pretty suspicious-- Engarde and Crescend-- and Crescend's now in with Gavin's brother, and he probably knows what happened to him and about the assault and all the rest of it-- talking to Gavin's butt buddy?  _Something_  was in the works, and Waverley was probably right about it being about drugs-- because something pretty big would have to make those two talk to one another--"

He sips his coffee and then looks at me. "I don't trust Waverley though. I know he's got friends in high places, but he's an incompetent fuck and now he's trying to guilt my brother out of going for worker's comp or talking to the union. He told him that if he wanted to press charges against anyone, it'd have to be Engarde himself for the assault."

"That's... interesting."

"Right. And I can see it already-- Engarde's easily got the best damn legal counsel available to him, upstairs, in the next bed--"

"I assure you, they aren't that closely aligned."

"So the administration here made  _one_  wise decision," he mutters sarcastically. "Glory be." 

He sips his coffee again and scowls at me. "I don't trust him, personally. He's gone from being a decent guy into a little Napoleon with a serious superiority complex. And Christ knows who else he's going to screw--"

He stops, mid-tangent as the door opens. Lily rushes in and races for the sink, not looking at either of us. She grabs a cup and fills it with water, gulping it down, her back turned to us.

"Are you okay?" Field's momentarily forgotten his anger.

"I'm  _fine_ ," she snaps back. I catch a glimpse of her face even though she doesn't want us to; she's red-faced and it shows beneath the bronzing powder on her face; she looks hot and angry in that ready-to-throw-a-punch kind of way. She swiftly dashes out of the staffroom, leaving her plastic cup still rattling in the sink.

"What the fuck was all that about?" Field asks. "What's he gone and done to her now?"

 

After lunches have been distributed to the increasingly unsettled, locked-down inmates, Waverley calls another meeting.

"Preliminary Coroner's report's come back," he tells us. He throws a few stapled together pieces of paper down onto the table. Hands reach out to grab them, like a flock of seagulls fighting over scraps. Hamm gets it, giving it a quick flick-through, even though I know he probably cannot make sense of it. He still tries to hide his illiteracy with little gestures like that, and he passes it behind him to Caster.

"It seems our little drug problem wasn't just limited to Engarde and Plan getting loaded while Tona had his back turned," he says. "As you can see from the report, Plan had pretty much ingested a combination of anything he could get into himself. And he had spares for sale, too." 

"Wasn't he searched?"

"Not well enough, apparently, though there's limits to what we can do. It looks like, at some stage, he'd packed some in one lot and shafted another."

"Condoms?" Towne asks.

"Nope-- bits of rubber gloves. Which is interesting, isn't it? Because something like  _that_  seems rather ad hoc, doesn't it? If they'd found a ruptured condom in his stomach and one packed up his ass, I'd have assumed some planning went into it. This makes the idea that he wasn't expecting the drugs to turn up and just used what was available to him seem feasible, right?" 

 _Since when did you become an investigator?_  I'm wondering, but I'm listening and not speaking up. 

"So it was the ruptured glove that caused him to overdose?" Towne asks. 

Waverley nods. "True but ironic story-- he got the middle finger in the literal sense, too."

There is an unimpressed groan from the other side of the room. Waverley isn't known for his sensitivity. 

"How much of this stuff  _was_  there?" Hamm asks, incredulous. "I saw what happened to Engarde-- if there was enough for Plan to use, and enough for him to shaft, and enough for him to pack-- how  _little_  did Engarde take?"

"What's to say Engarde wasn't just putting on another Oscar-winning performance?" Waverley's voice drips with sarcasm and he smiles nastily.

"He could have  _died_." Lily speaks up, and she's livid. "I know that was a direct criticism of the way I handled the situation, Glenn, but I'd rather a pain-in-the-ass Engarde who's faking it than a  _dead_  Enga--"

"You finished?" 

Obviously not, since he cut her off mid-sentence.

"Because that wasn't a direct attack on  _anyone_ , and we probably need to take about this in my office afterwards, Lily."

"Don't you mean  _Parke's_  office?" She's a raging, boiled kettle of hissing steam. And everyone else is just watching the two of them, engaged in their private war, on display for the rest of the workplace.

"Get a room, you two!" I don't know who said it, but it's enough to make Lily push up violently from her chair, wrench the door open, and go storming out. Her face is as angry and hot as it was when I saw her earlier. The door slams behind her and I hear her footsteps, stomping on the unit floor and into the distance.

"Must be that time of the month." Waverley shrugs and smiles. Tension has been diffused. "Meme to all-- let's go easy on Lily today, all right?" Another smile, and there's a chuckle around the room. I'm not sure if it's amused and boys' club cameraderie-- I don't think so. It's awkward and uneasy. As though instead of being joking and amused, Waverley's just warned us, publicly, not to challenge him any more in the staff meetings.

That meeting is the final straw. I keep looking at the staffroom door, wondering when Lily will return, or if pride has forced her not to. Afterwards, when I head out of the meeting, angry and curious as to where she disappeared to, I wander the carpark for a look at who's parked there, grateful to the recently-employed rent-a-cops keeping the journalists on the other side of the road at bay.

It seems that Lily has left the premises. And that terrifies me, because that isn't Lily. Lily stands up for herself, Lily is teflon; hard and impenetrable and without letting anything stick to her. Lily's a survivor, especially in front of these guys. She's not an impulsive, furious woman on the verge of angry tears. 

When I return to my office, I'm shaking, furious and helpless and feeling worried; I don't just want coffee, I want to fix things, I want the stress to go away, not just for Lily, but for everyone. 

I do the one and only thing I can think of. I'm a dog, a lag, a snitch, a whistleblower. From my mobile phone, because I'm wondering if my other calls get traced-- I decide to call Parke.

 

 

It's like waiting for Liz to pick up, in the days of the beginning of the end. Where she'd initially spring to the telephone to answer it, scared something had happened and that it might have been someone  _else_  calling her three hours after I was supposed to be home. Perhaps I'd been injured, perhaps I'd been  _killed_.

A few months in and we had a ritual-- "Liz, I've had to stay back tonight and catch up on some papers-- I know-- I  _know_ \-- I'll be home soon, honey, I promise."  _Click_. When I should have rung, I was usually preoccupied. When I realised I was late in ringing, I'd push myself-- get a bit more done and I  _can_  go home soon and won't have to explain. 

When it'd hit the point of guilt, I'd spend another half-hour not wanting to ring her and admit that yes, I'd been bogged down in work yet again. 

When it bypassed that, and guilt became guilt about  _not ringing_  rather than still being at work, I'd wonder if she would be thinking dark thoughts back at home. Maybe I was dead. Maybe I was having an affair. 

So I'd ring.

A few months in, and she stopped springing for the phone to receive my belated apologies. She'd let the phone ring right up until the point where she'd heard it going for minutes, and in frustration and rage and tension from the incessant  _Brr brrr_  of the phone,  _then_  she'd answer. 

And that's what it feels like, waiting for Parke to pick up.

 

  
I shouldn't be ringing Parke. He's on his holidays. He could be sunning himself on an exotic island, idly sipping daiquiris and flirting with women half his age, picking at a platter of rich, orange fruits. 

Probably not. 

When he answers, I'm no longer expecting he will, but  _hoping_  he will. And I'm grateful for the first words out of his mouth-- 

"This is serious, isn't it?" 

"Parke--"

I didn't even know he could recognise my number. 

"How'd you know it was me?"

"Remember just after I'd been assigned Engarde as my key client and he made that epically awful suicide attempt, and kept raging about how it was my fault?"

Vaguely.

"I'd never dealt with one who was that batshit before; you told me to go home and said you'd wait in the hospital with him and you gave me your number in case I wanted to call for updates."

Ah. Now I remember.

I had given him my number-- as I think about what he's saying, that specific instance starts rolling back to me. I gave him my number because I felt that Parke gave a shit. Parke had been more naive then, Parke had gone wide-eyed when he'd seen all the blood; he'd seemed greatly affected by the way Engarde kept blaming him for the suicide attempt. Parke was green; he'd been moved from another unit after spending a couple of months there, and he'd seen more placid inmates; not the A wing, A-grade screwballs. Yet Parke wasn't disgusted so much as horrified. And Parke gave a shit about Engarde who, at that stage, was crazy and irrational and manipulative and virtually uncommunicative. 

I felt sorry for Parke, who obviously cared so much about a key client who did little more than spit at him or verbally abuse him, or try to wipe blood on him. Engarde did all that, yet Parke still cared enough to inquire as to his wellbeing, and I wanted him to feel that he could find out about Engarde's condition without being abused and attacked every time he went near him.

  
"I remember that."

The nest words out of his mouth are predictable. "He hasn't killed himself, has he?" He sounds aghast, and there's no tasteless joke about being away to miss all the good stuff from him. I'm almost expecting one, having been around Waverley for what feels like a lifetime.

But this is Parke. Parke is nothing like Waverley, which is precisely why I rang him.

"No; he's still alive." It's not a privacy breach since Parke  _is_  the manager and he's still employed by the prison. I might as well fill him in so he doesn't return to an inbox full of emails and a desk full of overwhelming paperwork to make sense of. "Drugs turned up on the unit--"

"Shit."

"--and Timothy Plan-- well--"

"I saw the news," he says, sounding resigned. "Can't keep me away from the fucking place, even when I'm on vacation."

I wonder what he's been doing with his time; if he's taken that glorious white-sandy-beached time away or if he's spend the time off as I have, in front of the television and avoiding, but being drawn to the place, sucked into its magnetic pull.

"So there were drugs on the unit-- they're saying someone's been stood down--"

"Tona was in the mailroom when the drugs were discovered; he's on leave." 

"So that was just the media getting it wrong."

"I suppose so."

  
There's a patch of silence, and then Parke speaks up. "I call bullshit on Tona," he says. "That kid's-- what's that thing the kids do nowadays where they don't drink or nothing?"

"Straight edge?" Anna had mentioned something about it in amongst the conversation we were having about her friends and the wedding.

"That's it-- doesn't drink, doesn't do drugs--"

"But that's not to say he doesn't turn a blind eye to others doing it."

"Nuh. Nuh-uh-- Tona's a good kid-- a bit clueless at times, and a bit nervy, still, but he's not gonna be pro drugs. One of the reasons he wanted to work on the unit was because he heard we were drug-free."

That's interesting.

Parke continues-- "He told me after the interview-- I was one of the ones who picked him-- he wanted to work in the system because of his sister. She'd been in and out of juvie since she was twelve, and she ODed when she was nineteen. It fucked him up and drugs are a big sore point for the guy. I trust him; he's a good kid." He sighs. "Perhaps he made some sort of oversight, particularly if there was other stuff going on in the mail room-- that place can get hectic-- but I'd bet my ass that he didn't intentionally do nothing about it."

He sounds worried. "I might give him a call," he says.

"You're on va--"

"How's Waverley running the show?" His tone has changed; he's gruff and serious, wanting answers. 

"Not very well." I think carefully about how to describe it, to talk about just  _how_  not well things are being run without sounding like I'm airing a beef with a disliked colleague. "Denham and Field are off on work-related injuries, and Knox-- who's still here-- was telling me that the whole thing was entirely avoidable."

Do I tell him about Engarde and Gavin being in the hospital and my suspicions surrounding Gavin's injuries? No. Not here. Not when someone could walk past and--

"My concern right now is for Lily, though."

Parke brightens up at the mention of her. "Lily?" he asks. "Don't worry about her; she's weathered worse-- she was one of the first back after the riot. She knows how to handle Waverley's shit."

"She stormed out after a meeting this afternoon and seems to have gone home."

"Maybe she was sick--" He cuts himself off. "Lily doesn't do that."

"I  _know_  Lily doesn't do that."

He sighs again. "So what's going on right now? Another investigation, isn't it?" 

  
I nod, without realising he can't see me. "Yeah. Unit's on lockdown, people are being interviewed, there are police on the floor."

"Well-- look-- I'll be back soon," he offers. 

"Any idea when?" 

There's a sound which is something between him sucking his breath in and cursing, shaking down the phone line. "It's that bad, is it?" he asks. "Usually it's  _me_  asking you for assistance, isn't it?" 

It occurs to me then that Waverley's rarely done that since rising to power. Waverley's threatened me, ordered me around, and demanded answers in front of other people, but he'd never come to me to just get things off his chest or formulate ideas about what's happening like Parke did. 

"It's not looking good," I tell him. "With experienced staff off the floor and this investigation and now the lockdown--" Not to mention the suspicious injuries sustained by Gavin and Engarde, the drugs on the unit and Plan's death--

"You think these are festering conditions for another riot?"

This time it's me sucking my breath in. "I hadn't thought about that, actually." But he's right. Riots don't randomly happen; scuffles and personality clashes leading to violence happen randomly. A riot requires some set of circumstances-- tension, a perceived unfairness, an  _event_ ; something so huge and involving that personal differences can be put aside and a sense of "us versus the system" comes into play for all-- or enough of, at least-- the prisoners involved. Unexpected alliances are formed, slights forgotten for the moment. And once the riot is in action, everyone descends into animalistic plays for dominance and survival of the fittest. 

"But it could happen, right?"

Of course it could. The investigation isn't going to go forever and lockdown won't last forever, either.

I don't say anything because I'm suddenly faced with a new fear, and I'm wondering if Waverley, with all his prison officer insight, has suspected that a riot could be on the cards. And then another thought occurs to me. 

"Maybe some people want it to." Just like he wanted to be the manager who won the war on the invisible drugs on the unit.

Parke's on the same page as I am. "It does look like it could benefit someone's career-- to be the one who stopped the riot--" he says. "But the reverse is usually true-- after a critical incident, management is scrutinised-- people get  _moved_. Nothing good comes out of a riot-- there's media attention, stress leave, we lose staff, people get injured--"

I realise this, but it's feasible that Waverley, in his meglomaniac grandiosity, may not be. 

"Didn't deNong get promoted after the riot?"

"Yeah," says Parke gravely. "They were trying for years to get rid of Glenn Eyeriss-- that guy was beyond ineffective and when he retired, they needed to put  _someone_  in the role..."

He stops there, and then tells me that his phone battery is dying. Not having heard any interference, I don't know if I can believe him, but I suspect he'll be thinking about what's been said. 

"Don't worry-- I'll be back," he reassures me.

 

 

I return through the airlock, sheepish. The phone beeps to itself as I shut it into my little locker, secure, safe, sound, out of mind. Assuming that it's the battery-- and not a missed called from the unit--  _Where were you?_ \-- as though they knew what I was doing-- I try to forget about it. 

It's not that easy: I've broken the cardinal prison rule, the one that has seen men beaten and raped and murdered since the advent of the institution:  _don't be a rat_.

Of course, it's different when you're  _staff_ , but in some ways, it isn't; Waverley runs on a similar mentality to many of the systemised, institutionalised men incarcerated here. And Waverley has already threatened me. What I can be pleased about, I suppose, is that I didn't tell Parke everything, and that hopefully my ringing him has left him with enough to know that everything is bad and going to worse.

The unit is still on lockdown, and is getting that eerily dust-settled feel to it. The inmates are growing accustomed to being locked in their cells for most of the time; they don't yell out as much, unless a particularly liked or loathed staff member walks within their line of sight. As I walk past Cresend's door, I peer in through the window. "Can we say this is bad for my mental health?" he asks me in a joking fashion. He's sitting on the bed, his eyes brightening as though he's thankful for some human interaction. 

Of course we could. It's bad for  _everyone's_  mental health. Like everyone else, I just want this investigation dealt with and over.

I'm grabbed as I head into the kitchen, the only place on the floor where the staff seem to be concentrated. Waverley appears to be bossing everyone around as they attempt to prepare dinner for everyone, and when he sees me, he rushes over, waving the thick knife still in his hand as he talks.

I'm relieved when he doesn't ask where I was.

"Wellington has an appointment with you."

I don't respond to that, because whatever I say will likely be contradicted or refuted by Waverley. I'll just let him say his piece.

"I  _know_  you don't like him, but after the incident with Dr. Smeer, we really have no other options." There isn't even a suggestion of sympathy in his voice; he sounds irritated, as though I'm going to assess Wellington poorly because of my apparent dislike for him.

It's not that I dislike him. I don't trust him, granted, but I don't trust any of them. I'm a professional, impartial and objective; if something is wrong with Wellington--

"Lockdown hasn't been good for him," he continues. "He's threatening to kill staff and himself and--"

"Do you believe he could carry out such threats? Is he placing the unit at risk?"

Waverley's face starts going red and his moustache twitches. "I'm not having another incident on our hands because Richard Wellington hasn't received psychiatric help."

"Lockdown isn't good for  _any_  of them."

"That's my call to make, not yours," he snarls, his anger suddenly unrestrained. "The sooner these pricks leave and decide that Plan died because he's a drug-peddling moron and that Engarde's a snivelling, manipulative little--"

His voice is rising, and people are looking at us from the other side of the kitchen. The chopping of vegetables has ceased in order for them to hear us. I've noticed this. Waverley is either pretending not to, or he doesn't care.

 _He's making an example of me_ , my mind screams, squirming with the knowledge. But of course, I can't walk away from a chance to make things worse for myself--

"So you truly believe Engarde was responsible for the drugs on the unit?"

"When I find  _proof_  that he was bribing Tona to bring the stuff in--"

"What would he be bribing Tona with?" I ask coolly, thinking of Parke's description of him. I'm close to pointing that out-- that Tona is as straight as a rail-- in both senses of the word-- and I stop myself. I've never brought it up before. Waverley will wonder where the new information came from. 

  
My heart's thudding ominously, and I can feel sweat rising to the surface under my shirt.

"What does Engarde bribe  _everyone_  with?" he asks sarcastically. "They weren't calling him  _dumpster_  because he likes taking out the trash."

He stops, and with his animated hand movements, unintentionally-- I hope it's unintentionally-- jabs the knife in my direction. "Anyway," he says, withdrawing his hand just as I flinch back from the movement, "Wellington probably needs to see you."

I nod. 

"If you don't feel  _safe_  talking to him alone, I can organise for an observed session if you wish."

Considering what happened with Smeer, I just nod in agreement, and he motions towards the mass of staff working in the distance and watching us. Towne wanders over, looking concerned. 

"Let's get Wellington dealt with," Waverley says to us.

 

 

* * *

The plan is simple. Towne stands outside my office, and observes through the small window next to the door. I have the blinds open, so he can see in. Wellington's back is to the window, and the room is reasonably quiet, so unless Wellignton starts screaming or turns around. Towne doesn't know what he's saying. And I don't need to worry about Wellington trying to win any bets. Or someone else's plan to discredit me, I think uneasily. Or whatever all of that had been about.

"So," he says, sitting down, one long leg crossed over the other. "It's been awhile since we've seen one another, doc." His voice is uncharacteristically perky, dripping with an upbeat sarcasm which concerns me. I'm wondering what's really going on; surely this is tactical rather than medical.

I stretch behind my desk, thinking about how to approach him. "I recall you being the one wishing to terminate our sessions," I say coolly. "You wished to see Dr. Smeer."

"Engarde set me up," he snaps automatically, arms folded defensively, a scowl on his face. 

"Mr. Wellington," I tell him, "Matt Engarde was not responsible for your actions when you decided to--"

"Decided to  _what_?" He blinks, fluttering his trademark eyelashes at me, a model of innocence. Well, he would be if prison hadn't aged him and if the rumour mill weren't operational and interested. "No one saw anything."

"Sometimes, Mr. Wellington--" I stretch again-- I don't have time for this crap-- "We see enough and we can draw accurate conclusions." Actually, I have ample time for this, I realise, more than enough, because I have nothing else to do. And if Wellington tells his friends I'm more interesting than lockdown, I could be in for a day of this.

"Conclusions aren't evidence." He smirks.

"How do you know that Matt Engarde set you up then?" 

"Have you ever seen an albino tiger?" he asks me. He's calmed; he's able to debate ideas now. This must be terribly amusing to him.

"I think so." 

"I don't mean a  _picture_ , which may or may not have been doctored with photo manipulation software; I mean have you  _really_  seen a white tiger?" 

I can't remember. I shrug instead. "Mr. Wellington--"

"My point is, how do you know you have seen something unless you've actually  _seen_  it?"

"Are you saying that you weren't behaving inappropriately in Dr. Smeer's office?"

  
He chuckles, dark eyes twinkling at me. "I never said anything about  _anything_ , doctor." His arms have unfolded, and with a skinny finger, he tweaks at the limp, over-bleached strand of blonde running down his face. "But I am wondering how  _you_  can claim things have been seen which may not be there." He glances up at the ceiling and looks remotely thoughtful.

"On that note, though, I've just thought of something you're going to need to document about me-- I'm going to require some weights to be made available to me, or use of the gymnasium."

My eyes widen. "Mr. Wellington-- we  _are_  currently on lockdown."

"I  _know_ ," he says, mock-apologetically. "I should have asked earlier-- Dr. Smeer actually advised physical activity for my depression-- since the depressants caused me--" Blinky eyes again and a scandalised expression from him-- " _Other_  problems in a significant area."

I don't want to know. It's my duty to know. I can feel my brain sighing and when he doesn't elaborate, and I don't ask him about a dead libido or some other thing he's trying to bait me into shock with, the scandalised look turns serious. "I need to start working out."

"Why is that?" 

Richard Wellington has always been lanky, in a catwalk model sort of way rather than a sporty way or a  _sickly_  sort of way. To my knowledge, he's never expressed any kind of dissatisfaction with his build, he's been skinny and glamourous and pretty, not one of the muscular tough guys. Wellington's never needed to have been a tough guy, receiving the backup he's needed from Gant and his friends.

So I'm vaguely curious about his desire for muscles.

"It appears that I may require some physical strength," he says matter of factly.

He's almost boasting about it, and I'm wondering why. Normally if he-- or anyone else-- is planning something, they don't go advising me beforehand. There's a reason for the disclosure. And I want it.

"Is this because you're planning on killing staff here?" I raise an eyebrow, and he pouts at me, his bottom lip protruding childishly. 

"No," he says waspishly. "I  _may_  be required to serve as bodyguard, that's all."

"Bodyguard? To whom?" A shift in alliances that I'm unaware of?

"Damon Gant, of course," he says. "It's clearly obvious that that psychopath Gavin is going to want him dead because of the drugs on the unit, and everyone knows what he did to me last time, didn't they?" He sighs, blinking again. 

I'm interested. But I'll address the obvious first.

"I thought Furio Tigre was Gant's muscle."

"Well, he was, until he found out about his kid." There's a different kind of devillish in his eyes now-- Wellington is a gossip. He waits for my predictable surprise. "Since he found out he's got a daughter-- she's twenty something and she's a  _nun_ \--" he can't hide the amusement in his voice-- "He's started shifting his tune on a few things. And he found out through letters that she lives near the minimum security prison interstate," he continues. He rests back in his chair, looking thoughtful. "I have a suspicion that Gant will be requiring some new assistance in future. Word I've heard amongst individuals in certain circles is that Mr. T wants to be transferred so he can connect with said flesh and blood." He shrugs.

I'm surprised, but we're not here to talk about other inmates. 

"How do you feel about that?"

He shrugs. "I suppose I'm deserving of a promotion," he says. "If things change around here, Gant might wish to forgive Engarde meaning that he'll probably be room sharing with him again."

"What makes you so certain?"

He flips around and looks out the window. "Isn't it obvious?" he asks. "Managerial changes affect  _everyone_."

"So you're saying that Gant and Engarde will be sharing a room again and--" I'm dying for information. "How do you feel about that?"

He crosses his arms, looking haughty. "I cannot say I'm  _pleased_ ," he says. "But Engarde will get what's coming to him. People always do around here, don't they?" And there's a dangerous smile.

"Is that a threat?" 

"No," he says. 

"I don't believe that."

"You have no evidence to believe that I'm lying."

He's right. All I have are some sketchy details suggesting he's untrustworthy. And some rumours and secondhand mentions of him stating he'd kill Engarde. Or Gavin.

"Look," he says matter-of-factly-- "I've never harmed anyone around here."

"Except for those threats to kill Engarde and Gavin."

"Prove it." Arms are folded again and one finger is tapping against his elbow. I look at his fingers; despite the rest of him being aged and damaged, his hands still look beautiful, his fingernails are as perfectly shaped and filed as though he could be a hand model. I suppose, other than strong feelings about Matt Engarde, the hands are the only thing he has in common with Gavin.

  
"I cannot  _prove_  it and I haven't  _heard it myself_ ," I tell him, "Though I have it on good authority..."

"I'm not going to harm Engarde," he states. "And you  _can_  record that." He sighs, flipping his hair out of his face. "Though I  _might_  get so angry at having unmet needs and--" 

He's not Smokey the Bear. He can't just go rattling off demands and expecting us to fulfill them and there's no way in hell that he'll be allowed weights in his room. "You'll just have to wait until you're off lockdown-- wait until the investigation's over-- as everyone else has to-- and then you can access the gym if staff deem you suitable." I'm still uncertain about his admission, because he's still managed to evade assuring me that he doesn't plan on harming anyone  _else_.

"Are you safe?" I ask him.

"Very much so. Though I believe I would be even moreso if I could access appropriate equipment to start empowering the endorphins, doctor."

"Is this all you wished to see me about?"

He nods. I knew this wasn't a legitimate visit, and I wish for him to stay safe. "Keep safe, and sit tight until the investigation is over, and I shall discuss it with management."

He smiles. "Of course, doctor," he says. There's a glint in that smile which I can't trust.

  
He stands up, thanking me politely for my time and concern, shaking my hand-- once again I notice the perfect fingers-- and walks towards the door. Towne opens it, nodding to me, and I return to my desk. As I see the two of them disappear beyond the window, something stupid occurs to me. 

Wellington said he was _safe_ , but he never said he wasn't going to harm anyone—except Engarde, and there must be a reason behind that. He's slippery, and I didn't expect an assurance. Hopefully the motivation of the gym for good behaviour stands and he'll choose to behave himself-- no, that's not where my concern lies.

In amongst the recent confusion, I'd forgotten about the mysteriously absent nail file which he apparently had. 

I radio Waverley to answer the kitchen phone, pressing in the numbers on my own with my other hand.

"What?" he barks into the mouthpiece. "I'm--"

I'm not in the mood for his attitude.

"I believe Wellington may be harbouring contraband--"

"I can't do a room search right now," he says. "We've got two interviews on so there's nowhere to hold him and Gant while we check the room--"

"Wand him, then?" I don't wait for more argument from Waverley. "He's threatened, even if it's only vaguely, to hurt staff, and given the climate due to the lockdown, if he  _does_  have something available to him--"

"Like what? A  _nail file_?"

"That's my suspicion." My voice is tight and angry in light of his sneering. Perhaps I'm in a situation where I may be able to prevent things from getting worse by notifying him about it. "It's a  _safety risk_."

  
"Fine, then," he says casually. "I'll have him wanded when he goes back. Gant, too, if you like; we're busy around here, though, so the room search will have to wait for a bit."

"Thankyou." I put the phone down without giving him the chance to respond. 

  
And it's only after I do that I realise something: things might be crazy and chaotic from an administration point of view, but the inmates themselves still have their own issues to sort out and the social pecking order still continues on as it has, with power plays and vies for dominance, people being ousted, others rising to power, others starving for power.

The unit may be on lockdown, but it hasn't come to a standstill. It's just been given time to incubate.

 

The phone in the communications office rings as I walk past. Knowing that everyone else is busy-- in the kitchen-- or in the interviews, I pick it up automatically.

It's the resident doctor, advising me that Dr. Smeer has left for the day and that Gavin has the all-clear to return to the unit. 

"I'll get Wav--" I start to say, but the doctor cuts me off. 

"Waverley knows," he says. "I was talking to him about five minutes ago-- he needs an exit clearance and then he's back on the floor." 

"Uh-huh." I wonder why they want him to have exit clearance, but I don't ask. "All the paperwork's there, I was just after a member of staff to return him." I should never answer calls for other people. So much for being a good samaritan.

I radio Waverley and he snaps back something frustrated. The president of the United States of America could return him for all he cares; right now he's worried about having enough mashed potato to go around. 

I head for the hospital.

Gavin is in good spirits, it seems, when I arrive. His eyes brighten as he realises who's shifting the curtain away, and he sits up in bed, smiling at me. His face is still bruised, but he doesn't look as pained and lethargic as he did last time I was there, there's animation in his movement. If I were to take a guess, I'd suggest that he's bored and grateful, at last, for a break in the routine.

"Hello, doctor," he purrs contentedly. "Do have a seat-- please."

There isn't one available, and he looks at the bed, his lips twisting upwards into a tiny smile.

"I'll stand, thankyou." I glance at the bedside table; while there are no flowers here, it appears that someone's brought him in a new book. I sneak a look at the title on the cover.  _My Best Friend_.

"My not-so-secret admirer found me a copy," he tells me. "Have you read it?" 

I shake my head. I'm not really listening to him talking about the book, I'm wondering why he's in such a good mood. Has he found a way to talk to Engarde in here? ( _Great_ , I think,  _He's going to be shattered when he realises he's leaving_.) Has he received good news of some description? I'm almost scared to ask him. And I suspect that if I do, the answer won't be an honest one.

"It was shortlisted for the Pulitzer in '24," he tells me. "Do you remember the year with the controversy?" He speaks to me as an equal, as though I know about high art and literature. Or as though he wants me to believe that I feel like he's treating me as an equal.

This place has made me too eager to second-guess everyone.

"We had a copy in the library but it was badly damaged," he continues, "Presumably when someone became aware that it was one of my favourites. But the kind nurse here decided to indulge me." He smiles serenely.

"That's very nice of her." I decide to attempt shifting the conversation. "Why are you in such a good mood?"

He smiles. "I've heard that there shall be an investigation on the unit after the death of an inmate."

"Aren't you worried that it might be someone you care about?"

He chuckles. "Have I ever been sentimental about such things?" he asks.

 _Certainly not Redd White's death._  And I hate the way that I come back to thinking about White, whom I'd avoided allowing into my thoughts for a long time. 

"I suppose not."

"What's wrong, doctor?" He blinks. "You look bothered by something."

"I'm busy," I offer. I am. Sort of. Not really. I'm busy with the tension of the place and the investigation consuming me. I'm mentally busy, trying to place what's going to happen next. It's a distraction that makes Gavin's head games that much more irritating.

"I think I know why you're here," he says, still smiling at me. "You would like to know where Engarde got the drugs from, wouldn't you?"

I wasn't expecting that, and clearly it shows on my face. Before I can answer, he continues, breezy and carefree, explaining it all. 

"I know Engarde is up here," he says. "Patient confidentiality seems to go out the window on the ward when there are only a few patients." 

"Have you seen him?" 

"Yes." And suddenly his face changes, that calm he was holding onto becomes distracted for a moment, and there's a blunt and unimpressed tone to his voice. 

"And... it didn't go so well?" I'm curious as to what would give him that sort of reaction, what would shake his perfect calm, what would anger him about the man he previously seemed so fond of. He looks casually at wine-purple book cover again, and pointedly not at me. 

"She was lying when she'd said that she'd read it," he says coolly, his voice gaining that amused tone again. "She said it in that off-hand sort of way where you're trying to impress someone, trying to have something in common with them." His lip twitches. "Have  _you_  read it?"

"No," I tell him, exasperated, my legs feeling heavy, and my mind chastising me for not just ignoring the creepy undertones and sitting on the bed when it was offered. The stress runs through me, hurting and tiring my body, and I want to sit down. And it's not like he's going to  _kiss_  me again, is it? Gavin uses his methods  _once_ , and then he knows the response to them is not one of surprise.

He folds his hands in his lap, and tilts his head slightly. "At least you're being honest," he says. And perhaps his smile is genuine then, because he adds-- "I think you, as a student of abnormal psychology, may enjoy it." 

"Oh?" I want to find out about his reaction towards Engarde. As a student of abnormal psychology, right now  _that_  interests me more than a work of fiction. At the moment, I'm just being lead around a circle by him, and I'm not getting anywhere. And despite the fact that this is mere formality, I'd like this exit interview to actually achieve something. I'd like to have an idea of his mental state before he's returned to the unit.

"It's about brothers," he purrs. "The younger of them loves the elder obsessively. He kidnaps and murders a child because of his love for his older brother, and confides in him." His eyes darken, the pupils dilating, and his voice lowers to something husky and scandalised. "The relationship between the two is dysfunctional, at best, bordering on sexual at times." I wonder if he can't help this, or if this is just another ploy to intimidate me. "The book explores themes of love and purity and corruption and it overlays the economic crash back in the early 20s-- a period I am most interested in considering the fact that my household fell victim to it. There's that personal identification, I suppose."

He looks so smug and amused, and I decide to push him. "It's not just about the historical aspect for you, is it?"

"I often wondered how far Klavier would go for me," he says idly. "How much  _further_ , I suppose. At one point, I had him so perfectly trained that he wouldn't even blink unless I asked him to." He smiles to himself.

"We're not here to talk about that right now. We're here to exit you from the hospital."

He sits up, straight, and looks at me intently, his voice still smooth and comfortable. "So they're letting me out--" he says. "That's interesting-- isn't there an investigation underway?" 

"Yes, but apparently you're well enough to return to the unit and they would like you to leave here." I shrug. 

"No one tells you anything?" he asks with faux sympathy.

"Perhaps you could tell me  _why_  you think you're being returned." That's the part I don't understand, either. 

He doesn't say anything.

"Does it have anything to do with Engarde?"

He flinches slightly and then looks at me, straight and still in the eye. "I have advised both the treating doctor and the nurses that I will not cause Matt Engarde any problems while the two of us are both here."

"Did you... try something  _else_?" I can feel myself shuddering involuntarily, and shards of flashbacks prickle at me. Engarde wanting stolen hospital equipment, presumably for sexual play-- Gavin's own brutal handling of him-- Engarde's haunting near-obsession with the man-- this could potentially end in disaster. It's for the best that they're keeping them away from one another. 

  
"I spoke with Engarde briefly," he says with a shrug. There is no emotion in his voice whatsoever, and I'm curious as to the change in tone; normally there's a vague suggestion of warmth or affection-- or familiarity if he can't muster up that much-- there's something-- not this cool directedness.

"And what was said?"

He runs his long, thin fingers through his hair. A few strands come out and he glances down at them, distracted and irritated by their presence. "I advised him that I no longer wish to pursue a sexual relationship with him any more," he says. "I find drug use abhorrent." 

"Oh," is all I can say. I wasn't expecting that.

"And Engarde  _knows that_  and always has done. The fact that he deliberately acted against my wishes the moment I disappeared from the unit suggests that he could very well be doing other things behind my back," he continues. "As far as I'm concerned, Gant can have him back if he wants." 

I'm stunned; this is unexpected. Perhaps it was sentimental of me, but some part of me had believed that Gavin had always had some sort of affection towards Engarde; that he was a man of promises and absolutes, that once he decided that he liked someone, it remained that way. 

Then there's another thought which occurs to me, one which makes my heart stop.

"So you feel as though Engarde betrayed you?" I ask. Like Phoenix Wright. Like Klavier. Like who knows how many other people Gavin exacted revenge upon in some underhanded fashion. 

His eyes narrow, and he smirks at me, understanding where my thinking is leading me. "I wouldn't  _kill_  Engarde," he says. "Engarde is hardly a threat to me. Engarde isn't going to tell anyone anything everyone doesn't know." He blinks again, and looks down at his hands, and I find my gaze drawn to them too. There's a dark, dusty rose outline appearing on the back of his left hand, just underneath where the right is covering it. He quickly looks up at me. "I must say I had some enjoyable times with Engarde, but ultimately I feel nothing for the man." He twitches slightly, adjusting his position. "I daresay that it would probably be in both our best interests that I am returned to the unit and we are kept separated." He nods at me. "I have advised him that it would possibly be beneficial for him to be sent to the protective custody unit since he's not only offended _me_ with his drug use." He nods matter-of-factly. "It was my understanding that the unit was always drug-free and a number of the power brokers on the floor, both staff and inmates, are going to be angry that Engarde so blatantly abusing drugs has thrown a spanner in the works."

He still speaks stoically, unemotional. "I suggest we return to the subject at hand, doctor-- my return to the unit."

And now's when I want to ask him so many other things. I'm not sure I believe his stoicism. I want to see if there's still the face of a devil underneath his left hand. I want to ask him if this is some ploy to get Engarde moved to a safer area, if this was some plan concocted by the two of them. And then I feel stupid for that; Gavin has always been honest-- to some level-- with me. I'm allowing myself to get sentimental where there is no reason for sentimentality. 

Maybe I want to believe that he's capable of love for myself rather than for any reasons related to him and his treatment.

I blink. When did I get this unprofessional?

I clear my throat, still deeply in disbelief. "Certainly," I tell him. "Do you feel ready to return to the unit?"

He nods. "My injuries seem to have healed and I don't suppose I shall be receiving any more."

I just nod. 

"Do you feel comfortable with returning to the unit? Safe?"

"I understand that the unit is on lockdown, so yes, I do feel safe." He looks at me seriously, then, his eyes flashing with the realisation of needing to ask me something spontaneous. "Where will I be assigned work detail?" he asks. "I understand that the library is no longer." A flash of sympathy from him then-- "I do hope Miss Grave is all right."

  
I have no idea how she is, but I share his concern. My guess is that while she's gone, Waverley and deNong will be trying to force her role into redundancy and the library will be demolished by red tape and funding and space issues. 

Something else occurs to him then. "What about Lily?" he asks. "She was my key worker-- I have not seen her yet--" He looks around, almost suspicious. "Under ordinary circumstances, I believe she would be the person conducting this interview."

My heart's racing now, as though I'm a liar, a traitor, who had bene exposed to him. 

"Lily isn't in today."

"Oh? I do hope she will be back tomorrow," he says coolly. "I wish to discuss a few things with her."

"Is there something I could try and assist with?"

"Not really," he tells me. "I was wondering if I could have a visit with an old friend of mine-- I'd always meant to contact him once I arrived here after my second sentence, but I suppose the impending execution may have left him thinking I am deceased now." He smiles. "I could be Schroedinger's felon in his world, couldn't I?" And he chuckles again, pushing his glasses up his nose. "I suppose burning bridges in recent times has made me long for older, simpler friendships I once had."

Well that makes sense, at least. Justice, Klavier and Wright are unlikely to visit him, and I suspect they were as close to friendships as he could have. I find myself wondering, perhaps unprofessionally, who could tolerate him and his behaviour, what sort of denial or sociopathy they'd need to do that.

"Okay," I tell him slowly, watching him shift on the bed again. "What's the name of this friend of yours?" I justify it to myself with this much-- I can write the name down and leave it in Lily's pigeonhole so she can chase this person up. It's professional, not nosiness.

"Spark Brushel," he says coolly. "The two of us have known one another since our time together at university."

"Does he know about your incarceration?"

He smiles softly. "I think everyone knows," he says. "Though I believe Brushel may be a lot more openminded than most would be."

"What makes you say that?"

"He's fairly eccentric himself," he says, "And he deals with a wide variety of people." He shrugs. "I suppose he's like myself: it's hard for him to judge others given his own failures." 

And that's when I overreach and turn his words against him-- "Yet you find Engarde's drug use unacceptable?"

His lips tighten into a hard line and he glares at me. "In here," he says sternly, "A simple act of stupidity like that could kill someone."

"And it did-- are you saying that you would have preferred Engarde to have died from his drug use?"

He flinches again, uncomfortable. I'm hitting something, and I'm intrigued. I've never really had responses like this from him before, I'm tapping him lightly, softly, like rain slowly dampening and loosening the earth. This is the first time I've gotten this close to serious emotion from him. I want to be excited, but I'm stilling myself, trying to keep my voice even and steady, maintaining a poker face.

"No," he says. "I would prefer not to be placed in danger because of another's stupidity."

"But you said before that Engarde couldn't tell anyone anything which everyone didn't know already."

His face screws up slightly, for a moment, like he's squinting, and his mouth twists into a look of horror. "I can see what you're trying to achieve," he says angrily. 

"What?"

"You're trying to weasel something out of me about Engarde or what I know about the death or... something you believe in which I cannot be aware of because it only exists in your grandiose imagination." His voice has turned to ice. "You have what you needed; I am fit to return to the unit and I wish to do so." He stands up, placing his fingers over the garish stick figure drawing on the cover of  _My Best Friend_. "If you could bring a worker up here to escort me back to my cell--"

"I'm afraid it'll have to be me today," I tell him.

"I would have preferred a  _worker_ ," he says tightly, gripping the book. 

"Any reason why?"

"I don't wish to talk to you right now, doctor."

I'm scared with that statement. My poking and prodding has hit something, something terrible and unnerving which has tilted his apple cart more than slightly. He moves like a mist, dignified and breezy and slowly; unperturbed though his voice says something entirely different. 

The frostiness from him is...  _chilling_. It's unnerving and unpredictably terrifying, it's a nuclear white flash of something silent and blinding and awful which I've never had to consider description for. 

I can't even begin to imagine what this sort of disapproval would feel like if I was emotionally connected to him, if, say, I was Apollo Justice… or Matt Engarde.

  


 

  
I wonder, as I walk with him to the front desk and sign the appropriate paper work, what it was that I touched upon that upset him so much to bring about this reaction. What part of him did I threaten?

When I get to the unit, and we spy Towne leaving the kitchen, all he needs to do is look at me and I know what he's asking.

"Would you prefer Towne escort you to your cell?" I ask him. We haven't said a word to one another down from the hospital. 

"Yes please, doctor," he says. There's no smile in his voice, just a quiet, calm sort of graciousness. And when I radio Towne and he arrives-- "Thankyou."

I give him a nod as the two of them walk back through the unit.

It feels like the beginning of the end for some reason.

 

  
I jot down the name of his old friend and leave it stuck to my monitor, to be placed in Lily's pigeonhole when I finish my shift. I have notes to complete and a head full of mysteries. And a vague, unhappy sort of concern for Matt Engarde, who doesn't cope very well with rejection.

 

 

 

"I know nothing."

Behr folds his hands on the table and looks at the detective. "Except for the fact that my lawyer shall be contacting the administration here because I am being wrongfully held in my quarters with no reason."

"The  _reason_ ," the detective snarls, his voice blooming with anger, "Is  _security_. This is a  _prison_ , Behr. You're no one special here-- you're just like any of these other criminal motherfuckers."

  
"Is something the matter, detective?  _I_  certainly haven't resorted to speaking to  _you_  in such a fashion."

The detective is one of those no-nonsense types, a rusty, grizzled man who has seen all manner of horror and criminal wrongdoing in what is probably a long career. A smart mouth like Behr only serves to make his day longer and more frustrating.

"Just answer the godamned question."

Behr looks mildly irritated, and glances at me with pity, as though he knows that I'm not really supposed to be here, that a proper worker should be. I'm expecting him to ask me if I really spent six years in university to be doing  _this_. He smiles faintly and sighs.

"I have no knowledge of there being drugs on the unit," he says. "I just want to make parole." He pauses, lacing his fingers between one another.

"Well you'd better answer some questions then!"

"I believe that with a reputation such as mine, I will not be granted freedom, though I do believe it provides me with a suitable reason for  _not_  becoming involved with the drug trade in the prison." 

The detective nods. "You're friends with some big names here, aren't you?" he asks, unimpressed and unperturbed. One way or another, he's going to get his answer; I can see that pitbull look in his eyes; he's latched onto something, he's not letting go until he's told to.

"I am not here to make friends," he says. "I believe there are men here who have tried to court my favour given my skill and notoriety though I wish not to become involved with their affairs."

He's another Gavin, unshifted by the prison structure and his fellow inmates. Or so he appears. And everyone erodes over time, even Gavin. In a few years that voice will become harsher and more erratic, that indifference to the unit politics will shift, that skin will no longer look as well tended and the light will start leaving his eyes. 

I think about it. Maybe not. Behr has children out there. Gavin does not.

The detective considers this and looks at the file on the desk. "I've been reading about you," he says. "Peder  _Behr_ \-- he sneers the name out like an insult, as though he can do something no one else dare do-- "aka Smokey da Bear. Hitman, cleaner, assassin, the stuff of spook stories small-time mobsters like to posture to one another with--"

"You flatter me, detective."

  
"A man with no conscience, who's refused psychiatric treatment, who apparently still pulls enough strings on the outside."

"Are you suggesting that I am doing things even I don't know about?" Behr asks, mildly amused. "Because I  _could_  bring my lawyers in to have a chat with you. Let's keep the slander out of this."

  
"Suspected involvement in twelve murders --that we know about," he says. "Arson. Kidnapping. Vandalism-- and all for what,  _Behr_ \-- someone else's dollar?" His voice is rising. He's furious that he's not getting anything, and he's being threatened with lawyers. "What I want to know-- is that if you can kill a man--" His hand goes to the file and it's flipped open at a police document I cannot fully make out from where I'm seated-- "Roger Jolley-- smalltime guy, known importer and seller of pirated DVDs-- you  _strangled_  him with piano wire when his back was turned-- if you can  _kill_  someone like  _that_  on someone's word, I'm wondering who  _else_  you might be listening to."

"I was compensated financially for my troubles," he says. “And I assisted police where I was able to. Even though there is no proof and my lawyers had me acquitted.”

The detective grunts. Some sort of deal was done, one which probably lead them to another body but offered little implicating why Behr did what he had. And he knows it: he smiles at the detective calmly: _you people are just as corrupt as you’re accusing me of being, aren’t you?_

  
"Prison phone records have you collaberating with Damon Gant before Redd White's storage bay was destroyed by fire. Which was where you were arrested."

"I seem to remember that, too." He smiles and then looks at me.

"Damon  _Gant_  is  _in this prison_. At one stage, you were sharing a cell with him. So pardon my irritation,  _Smokey_ , but you're talking shit and you're not leaving until you start giving me some straight answers."

"Are you charging me with criminal activities related to Damon Gant?" he asks coolly.

"I know something's going on there, there's just nothing tying Gant to whatever White had in that storage yard. But we  _know_  he was the one who asked you to do that-- but what I'm interested in now is what else he's been asking you to do."

Behr unfolds his hands and sighs. "I'll admit," he says, "When I first arrived here, I received several offers from inmates-- and even staff-- to sort out certain situations for them."

The detective goes silent and his eyes widen hopefully before Behr dashes that hope. "But no payment from anyone here could help me. I refused all the offers which came with the requests-- none of them are as important to me as seeing my children again as a free man."

"All right then--  _who_  offered  _what_  in exchange for  _what_?"

Behr blinks.

"And don't say you're bound to confidentiality-- it's not like you actually  _did_  anything for them."

  
Behr sighs again. "Will you allow me to make a telephone call after this?" he asks.

"Sure. Knock yourself out."

Behr looks at him for a moment, then smiles with satisfaction. Another deal made. "There were a number of offers," he says wearily-- "Most of which I do not recall because I was new to the system and generally they came through second parties and they involved inmates in other sections of the prison."

"What about in  _this_  part of the prison?"

"Oh, there were several," he says. "Matt Engarde-- the former child star and actor-- the one with the scars on his face--" his expression changes to haughty, irritated disgust, as though he's just ordered a five star meal and a cockroach has walked across it after the cover has been lifted-- "he offered me a range of sexual favours in return for killing someone."

"Right." The detective doesn't look impressed. 

"I had to decline. In addition to wanting my parole, I have no interest in Engarde or any other man." He looks thoughtful for a moment. "Wellington offered me much of the same in return for an assault upon Engarde; again, I refused."

"Anyone  _else_?"

He looks uncomfortable for a moment.

"You know something, don't you?" The detective smiles at him nastily. "How desperately do you want that phone call?"

Behr takes a while to respond. "While I do not wish to speak ill of the dead, Timothy Plan offered sexual favours from himself and another inmate as well as a good deal of cash in return for the accidental death of Kristoph Gavin." He clears his throat and I watch him carefully; the detective and I seem to have both come to the same conclusion; he's lying by omission of the truth.

"There's more to it as well, though, isn't there?"

"There were two other men in the room when the offer was made," he says diplomatically, "And unless I'm going to be moved to a different unit or another prison, I wish to disclose no more of my theories as to what was happening." He shrugs. "You do understand the risks inherent in ratting on your comrades, do you not?"

"How badly do you want that phone call?"

Behr seems irritated, but something makes him give up the information. "Timothy Plan, Richard Wellington and Damon Gant were all in the mail room when the request was made," he says simply. 

"Why did Plan want Gavin dead?"

"I honestly cannot say," he says. He sounds genuinely surprised. "I have had very little interaction with Gavin; he appears to be a model prisoner despite his vulgar tendencies which apparently lean towards the pervserse." He's speaking cryptically. "This is all hearsay, of course, and I don't doubt that men could infer particular things about other inmates in hope that someone like myself, with a sensitivity to such matters, would  _take care of them_."

The detective doesn't look impressed. "What about Callander?" he asks. "He was on the  _news_. Were your sensitivities offended when you saw him?"

"I'm not destroying my chance to see my children for someone who received life without parole and who is quite likely mentally incompetent to begin with," he says simply. "From my understanding, Callander has already destroyed enough families."

The detective accepts that. "So Gavin," he asks. "No idea why Plan would want him dead?"

"There is the possibility that there was some sort of homosexual love triangle going on between Plan, Gavin and Engarde was the central focus. But that is merely my speculation. I don't know."

The detective looks down at his notes, and then at his watch, and then at me.

"Take him out," he says. He's realised time is running thin and that he has others to interview.

"When shall I receive my phone call?" Behr asks politely.

The detective looks visibly annoyed. "I'll talk to your manager," he says gruffly, uninterested in any debate about the matter.

I walk to the door and radio for assistance in returning Behr to the unit, thoroughly annoyed that I've become a part of this. 

When Hamm arrives, I thank him and step out, grateful and hoping Waverley hasn't decided to make this a regular duty of mine. 

"I need to call my son," Behr says to Hamm as they're walking away. "It's his birthday today."

 

 

 

"So we have shit going down here," Waverley barks at all of us. "Shit which is going to land  _us_  in the shit if it's not sorted out soon." He glares around at all of us in the staffroom. "I have cops crawling around this place like roaches, I'm using my professional staff as babysitters, and right now it looks like this was all about Gavin and Engarde wanting to sneak drugs onto the unit to make me look like a chump."

"Gavin?" Towne asks. "He's been in the hospital."

"He's behind it," Waverley growls. "He always is. Just like he was behind what happened to Dr. Smeer. Engarde doesn't have two brain cells left to rub together so Gavin uses him as his gopher."

Hamm twitches in his seat. He doesn't want to object to Waverley, but can't help it. Against any kind of rationale, he does. "Not any more, I don't think," he says cautiously. "Gavin turfed him."

A murmur ripples through the staff room.

"He was telling me about it today-- Engarde, that is, not Gavin. Gavin doesn't say shit to anyone any more-- the doctors put in a proposal for you to be doing intensive therapy with him, and a recommendation that he get put on suicide watch."

Waverley fumes, his face reddening. I wonder if he's already aware of this but was hoping no one would mention it publicly so he didn't have to acknowledge it. 

"No one told me about that," I say to him. "But I suppose I'm not doing anything else."

"I talked to the investigators today," Waverley says. "Looks like this is getting wrapped up tomorrow-- and it looks like they're charging Engarde with second-degree murder for introducing the drugs to the unit which killed Plan." He smirks. "I guess he's got something to occupy him in his heartbreak." His voice is sarcastic and cruel, and he doesn't stop there. "If, of course, that's what actually  _happened_ \-- I know the way those two play on the system-- this "breakup""-- he makes air quotations in vicious little snaps of his fingers-- "could be an elaborate ploy to distract us from something else."

"I think Engarde believes it," Hamm says. "He looked  _miserable_."

"He's an actor," Waverley offers dismissively.

"Let's face it--" I'm surprised when Field steps in-- "He wasn't a very  _good_  actor. All he did was jump around in a big faceless suit and appear at kid's TV awards."

A few people laugh, and Hamm nods. "I'm worried about the kid," he says finally, and there's a look in my direction like he's asking me to take care of him. I just nod.

" _Any_ way-- away from the daytime soap opera-- we've had some developments. Anyone interested?" He's taunting us now with the promise of information, and when everyone's silent and looking up at him, he starts up again. "We want the unit off lockdown by tomorrow afternoon-- we're getting some new inmates in, we're reassigning mail room duties to the staff--"

"What happens to the work duty component?"

"We're reassigning them and handing over new duties. Gavin gets to go to the morgue as promised and as he was meant to before all the shit came down; Gant and the mailroom guys will be assisting with the pool development."

There's more murmuring about the excitement of the pool.

"Any word on when Engarde returns?" Caster asks.

"Nope, but I hope he's found himself a damn good lawyer," Waverley sneers.

 

 

* * *

 

As I'm leaving, I think fondly about stepping into a warm bath. My legs are sore and I feel deflated and depressed; the day's gradually eaten away at me in the sort of manner that leaves your too-tired mind still process and trying to calculate what's happened even though the rest of you knows it's futile. I check my phone: it's either an incoherent text message or a poorly deciphered voicemail text from Lily--  _Do you know what the significance of a pink card is? Like a playing card?_ \-- and a voicemail from Anna, perky and excited about her impending visit. It's enough to make me smile and soldier on to the car. 

Like Smokey the Bear, I have something which frees my mind from this place; I have a daughter who needs me, I have a role which is in some ways, much simpler and kinder and more important than any of this drama or political bullshit. I hope he got to speak to his son.

 

Pink card. What's the significance of a  _pink card_ , I think to myself as I've tried calling Anna to get an engaged signal. There's a strange symbolism in it, I think, trying to distract myself;  _engaged_. Perhaps Anna is too busy for me as well now. 

Perhaps Lily's message was a badly transcribed voice text. Maybe she said "Think Hard." But... the rest of it.  _Like a playing card_? No: she meant what she said whether it was a text or a voice text.

But  _why_? Where do cards come into this mess and why would she mention one to me?

A pink  _slip_ : notification that someone has been terminated: has she been fired? There are pink pieces of paper on invoices and hand-written reports for files; but this was a  _card_. I don't understand the significance either.

There are, of course, cards on the unit; but they're usually from the supplies, available for purchase by the inmates themselves-- and they're the same, cheap, red-backed decks; sometimes inmates receive them as gifts from relatives, decks of their own, distinctive cards, cards which cannot have others slipped into them, so cheating becomes a lot harder whether they're playing for fun or for some sort of payment. 

Maybe someone else had a deck of pink cards on the unit. But why  _one_?

I'm startled when the phone rings; it's Anna, pulling me from my pondering, and she's excited; we talk about me taking a week off, we talk about the impending visit, things to do in the city, places she wants to visit, things she might like doing with her dad. When she has to go, I don't feel as blank as I did previously; I'm relaxed and happy. I realise that I spent absolutely none of that conversation thinking about work and the politics and Lily's cryptic message. I sleep well. I'm up in the morning and looking forward to submitting my paperwork for my week of leave, for mentally planning an itinery of things to do with my daughter-- she'll want to see the city, I'll take her out somewhere nice for lunch, we'll go to the zoo and Gatewaterland, I can take her shopping at the Plaza and we'll go to the Colisseum and catch a rock show if she doesn't find the idea of her old man rocking out too mortifyingly embarrassing. 

  
I receive a text as I'm driving into the carpark at work:  _Engarde wants to see you._

Of course he does, I think bitterly.


	27. Anomie and Chaos

I haven't even opened my office door when I see Lily behind me. She's looking eerily well-presented-- hair tied back stiffly, fresh, start-of-the-day makeup applied, her uniform recently washed and pressed. But instead of looking refreshed after a few Waverley-free days, there's steely determination in her eyes. 

"Guess what?" she asks as I try not to look too surprised.

"What?"

"Parke's coming back today."

I stop then, frozen, key in the lock, my eyes widening.

"Where'd you hear that?"

"I  _rang him_  after I told him what was going on," she says. She doesn't sound happy, but she sounds vindicated. "They're trying to set up Tona and Engarde for the drugs now, and Parke's  _pissed_." Her voice drops. "But he's not coming onto the floor-- I suggest you take as many cigarette breaks as possible; I think he said he'd be hanging around the car park for awhile; he wants to talk to a few of us and he mentioned you." She stops and smiles. "He thinks really highly of you, you know that?"

I had an idea. I smile at her. 

"How's Engarde?" 

She shrugs. "He was asleep when I saw him, but they're wanting him moved out of the hospital; he tried to punch out one of the nurses yesterday morning, and he threatened to kill Dr. Smeer. And he's now _shitting himself_ \-- he walked past and Engarde's been slicing up and he's made a  _mess_  of his arm-- they're wanting him in restraints and the high-dependency psych area because anything they try and  _do_  to fix him up is going to get taken out or slashed open or whatever. And Smeer won't sedate him; he's given up-- I saw  _him_  just before and he looks like he's spent several hours talking to Hannibal Lector with no cigarette breaks." She pauses and smiles wryly. " _He_  should think highly of you, too," she says.

  
That's one of the better compliments I've received here. "Thanks."

"Seriously, though, if they don't treat him properly, they're going to lose him--"

"Dr. Smeer isn't Engarde's psych any way," I offer.

"No, but they're wanting someone to move him. And he's saying he wants to talk to you; that you need to tell Gavin that the drug use wasn't in character for him, that he was off the stuff until he just disappeared or something-- blah blah blah..." She stops herself and looks around as an alarm beeps away to itself in the distance somewhere. 

"I'm not a relationship counsellor."

"Try telling Engarde that. He also seems to think it's possible to change Gavin's mind about things, too." Rolled eyes and another smile. I change the subject.

"How are you after the other day?"

Lily just looks at me for a moment, careful, considering her answer. It's then when I think that maybe the ultra-polished appearance, the lack of creases in her shirt and the unusual sheen on her hair is fronting up for a lot of uncertainty under the surface. 

"I'm better," she says. "Much better after talking to you and Parke." She doesn't sound pleased and calm, she sounds tense and ready to dig her heels in for a fight, waiting for a storm to blow on in, but secure with the knowledge that she's prepared for it and is staying to fight it if she can. And the way she mentioned other people makes me think that she might have quiet support amongst everyone else against Waverley. 

  


  
The morning alarm starts up and she lets me unlock my door. "I'll call you if I can... if I need to suggest we take some time out for a cigarette break." The conspiracy in her voice is amusing, as is her little smile.

"I'd like that--" I tell her, trying to sound completely deadpan-- "Thankyou."

Lockdown has finished. The detectives are gone, the unit has returned to order; everyone is off to their usual work duties-- unless they're the former mailroom staffers, or Gavin, going to the morgue to learn about paperwork. I assume he's already well-versed in what death looks like.

  
There's a strange feeling of disgruntled unrest from everyone, though, an anger at what's happened and at their containment over an incident which most of them knew nothing about. As I'm heading towards the hospital, Crescend, with a mop and bucket in front of him, stops me.

"Good morning, Mr. Crescend."

He smiles, his face inviting me for conversation. "Hey, doc."

"Pleased to be out?"

  
"Hell yes. Not that those bastards are gonna let me in the music room for awhile." He's back to his surly self, and a darkness flickers through his eyes. "You're gonna see Engarde, right?" he asks.

I don't try to give anything away, but I suppose I manage to do so. 

"You can tell him to go fuck himself," he snarls. "And that when he gets back, I know for certain that he's a dead man."

Hamm, escorting Gant to the staff offices, probably for a discussion with Waverley, glances over at us. I give him a nod of acknowledgement, and notice that the anger on Crescend's face turns to a vague smile which Gant seems to note, his turquoise eyes glimmering tenderly, like he's Father Christmas. 

"You friends now?" I ask, curious.

"Guess you could say so." Judging from the body language, it's a forced, stiff kind of friendship. 

He takes the mop in his hands and flops it onto the ground with a meaty, moist  _slop_. "Engarde wanted me to kill him, yanno?" he asks me with a weird sort of incredulous smile. "Right before Waverley saw us in the music room, the crazy little fucker offers me a blowjob if I ice Gant." He snorts, pushing the mop lazily along the floor. "Fuck that for a deal, you know? I've seen Engarde take it up the ass for a cigarette." 

Hamm walks by, Gantless, and raises an eyebrow at us.

"Back to work, Crescend," he says. "You're not in need of therapy right now."

"Your  _Mom_ 's gonna need therapy," Crescend sneers back at him. 

"That's enough--"

Crescend ignores him and smiles at me. "Sorry about that-- you should probably go talk to the little fucker. Pass on that message for me, hey?"

"I don't talk about other inmates, Mr. Crescend." I'm trying to keep my voice even, though I'm processing it; trying to work out what's been going on. Crescend and Engarde, Waverley had said, were discussing drugs. Apparently not. I wonder if the detectives spoke to Crescend about this, and I wonder, if they did, what they heard from him.

"Yeah, I know." He smiles nastily, looking up from his half-hearted mopping. "Guess he's gonna get a nice surprise when he comes back here, then, yeah?"

 

 

 

The hospital smells of early-morning disinfectant, before the smells of food and humans have had their chance to seep into the air and contaminate it. And it's quiet; it's still, there's a sense of emptiness about the place. My inner child is tempted to put a hand to my mouth and yell out  _Hellloo?_  just to see if it echoes in here. 

The calm should be a warning. 

I walk to the nurses' station, which is unmanned, and then towards where Engarde was situated last time I was in here. In place of an occupied bed, there's a freshly made up one, and no sign of Engarde, no sign of him ever having  _been_  in here; no charts or rubbish, no left-behind books, no  _smell_  of him in the air. 

I can feel my skin prickling, and an ominous sense of danger. I leave the bed curtain open and walk down the corridor in search of him-- where  _is_  he?-- and start wondering if there was some truth in Crescend's words--  _I know for certain that he's a dead man_.

Perhaps he doesn't even need to make it back to the unit to be one.

  
I try to consider it rationally: Engarde has numerous enemies: Wellington, Gant and Crescend openly dislike him, and they've all killed before. Gavin is no longer on side with him. Waverley oozes the kind of danger which suggests that he may not want to brandish the knife himself, but he'd do nothing to defend someone like Engarde if he were to come to danger. And then there are the vaguer, more chaotic threats; random men wishing to make names for themselves, small-time guys Engarde may have pissed off with or without even realising it, the terminally unbalanced like Callander who could just snap and do something crazy like _turn_  on someone convenient. 

Then there's Engarde himself, probably his most immediate threat. 

  
I can hear quiet murmurs coming from the interview room at the side, and the door is closed and the blinds are drawn. Still, that doesn't sound promising, and heavy-hearted, I move towards it.

  
Engarde's in there. I can hear his voice, dopey and unimpressed, a wince of complaint at something happening, and then a lazy, almost arrogant statement.

"Dude. I think that's my shrink waiting around for me or something. Or it could be that lawyer Gavin was fucking."

I'm surprised to realise that I'm relieved to hear him speaking like that; it suggests he's stable and a sense of normalcy about the whole thing. 

A quiet female murmur; it's one of the nurses-- probably Ree, I suppose.

" _Dude_." A bit more insistent. "I really  _have_  to see my shrink or my lawyer. If it's anyone else, you can tell them to fuck off, okay?"

The door opens and I step back. Engarde is sitting at the table, and I notice that it's different to the previous one which was in there and that it is now bolted to the floor. Nurse Ree is standing next to him, applying what looks like the finishing touches of a bandage to his arm. 

"Good morning."

Engarde's eyes, dull and dopey, brighten when he sees me. "Hey, doc," he says with a grin. His voice is upbeat and childish.

"What's been happening here?" Perhaps I don't want to know, but I can't help but ask.

Engarde giggles. "Wanna see my muscles?" he asks.

Ree gives him a stern look. "That isn't funny, Matt," she says in warning tones. She then looks at me. "We've just changed the dressing on some recent injuries," she says, sounding entirely unimpressed. "We were _hoping_  you could have a chat to him about... this."

"Well thank _you_ ," Engarde snaps at her, "But you realise I'm just gonna pull 'em out next time I get bored, right?" He chuckles and then looks at me, his eyes glassy with sleep deprivation and too much emotion. "This bitch doesn't believe that I have a death wish," he says with a smirk. 

"Mr.  _Engarde_." I ignore his attempts at inciting discord and sit down at the table. "We need to have a bit of a talk about things."

Ree takes that as her cue to leave, and closes the door behind her, walking away quickly. 

Engarde is fascinated with the end of the bandage, looking mildly disappointed that it's fastened with velcro as opposed to one of the older metal clasps with tiny, kitten-sharp teeth on the ends. 

"Well?" I ask him. "What was that all about? Why did you get bandaged up in _here_?"

"Because I kept trying to steal things from the medical room."

 _Oh._

He chuckles to himself. "I thought the doctor was going to be sick, doc," he says, relishing whatever the injury is beneath the bandage. "It's... pretty interesting under there."

I've met self-harmers before. I've seen some try to use their injuries for shock tactics. But I've never quite seen this sort of  _glee_  from them. 

"Wanna see? They knocked me out with something and put stitches in me."

"When was that?"

"At about three o'clock this morning."

"What were you doing awake then. Mr. Engarde?"

The expression on his face drops. "I couldn't sleep," he says quietly. "Things have happened."

"What's happened?"  _Ask for it in his words_...

He smiles again, and brushes his fringe back to reveal more red cuts on his face. "The night nurse was stupid enough to have a ceramic coffee mug with her," he tells me. " _And_ she fell asleep after she thought I was asleep." He shrugs. "She'll probably lose her job for that."

I look at him, awaiting an explanation, stony-faced.

"Anyway, she'd finished her coffee, and this mug is just  _sitting there_ , so I grabbed it and broke it under the sheets and..." His eyes are lightening up with his ingenuity. He snuck under the radar. He fucked with the system. He outsmarted everyone so he could slice his arm open. Clever him.

"What happened after that, Mr. Engarde?"

"I just started cutting at my arm," he says with a shrug. "I couldn't really see what I was doing, so I just cut deeper; I assumed I'd hit a vein at some point or another and that the bitch would wake up to see me, _dead_ , with blood all over the sheets, but I hit that call nurse button and next thing there's lights on and everyone's awake, dude, and they're all rushing and looking at me and I'm screaming and--  _yeah_." 

"Why did you hit the call nurse button?" 

He looks almost confused. "I dunno. I was bored or something." 

"So you didn't  _want_  to die any more?" I'm forcing my voice to remain calm.

"I wanted to know if Gavin was still here." He looks confused then and with his left hand, he brushes imaginary hairs out of his eyes. "I don't think he was," he says. "Coz that would have woken him up at least."

"Were you wishing to get his attention?"

  
He eyes me warily. "What do you think?" he asks.

"I'm asking  _you_."

He doesn't say anything for awhile, and I attempt to steer the conversation into another area. I don't wish to provoke the volatile side of him which threw a cup of chocolate milk at me last time I was in this room with him.

"Look," I tell him quietly. "I understand things have been tough lately, but if you keep on seriously harming yourself, there will be moves made to have you relocated to the psychiatric unit."

"So?" he asks. "Who's there?"

"I honestly don't know, and we're not here to talk about--"

"Look," he tells me. "You don't know  _how_  tough it's been." I can feel anger creeping into his voice and try to ignore it, in the hope that he doesn't escalate into wanting to assault me. 

"We need to talk about how we're going to minimise the toughness," I offer gently and seriously. And it's genuine, I realise. I'm not like the staff who couldn't care less what happens to him; I actually don't mind Engarde at the end of the day. It would be strange without his presence on the unit; I've grown used to him. And the thought of another dying prematurely makes me feel sick. Redd White. Timothy Plan. That's already more than enough.

I watch Engarde half-heartedly pick at his bandage and start wondering what's actually happened to me in the past year or so. I used to regularly counsel inmates with coming to terms with their own impending death, I used to write reports stating that they were psychologically well enough to execute. Eighteen months, two, three years ago, I suspected Engarde probably was going to be dead via his own hand, and I'd accepted that as a reality given his scatty personality and propensity towards danger and self-destruction. 

Now I'm realising that the idea of him dying bothers me greatly.

He looks up at me, noticing the silence, fingers moving away from the bandage. "What?" he asks. He blinks at me.

"Let's have a talk about what's been happening lately," I say quietly. His movements are slow and he looks like he's taking me seriously.

"Dude, it's pointless," he tells me. "I fucked up."

I'm not quite sure what he's referring to, and he returns to playing with the end of the bandage and he chuckles dryly to himself, not looking at me. "Yanno, I remember Celeste going off at me about drug use--  _Matt, you need to be in rehab, Matt, you can't keep doing this to yourself_ \-- the stupid bitch used to harp on at me like I was a fucking after school special. Like she wanted to  _save_  me." He snorts. "And I'd look through her; I didn't care. She was just my starstruck bitch of a manager who was using me for her day in the spotlight; I was just  _fucking her_." 

There's no real emotion, minor amusement perhaps but nothing more in his voice as he talks about Celeste.

Her smirks at me. "Sure, there was her whole social worker act; she wanted me to reconnect with my family, wanted to be the one mentioned in my biography that someone else would write for me because everyone thought that I was too pretty and stupid and busy to do something like that."

Despite his injuries and his craziness, there's a glimmer of the smug, I-can-buy-and-sell-you celebrity of his glory days underneath the damage. 

"Mr. Engarde..."

"Yeah." He stops himself abruptly, the smile fading out to something much sadder. "But...  _indifference_ ," he says wistfully. "I was  _always_  indifferent to them. I didn't give a fuck." 

 _And now you know how it feels_.

I don't fill him in on what I'm thinking, but he does as much without actually saying it.

"You should have seen the way he spoke to me in the hospital," he says. "He's... he never really cared. Just cut me off like I was nothing." 

He's still not looking at me as he speaks, and I'm trying to grant him privacy. Even though I can see a darkness in his eyes, and the way he's turned away from me, terrified that he's going to react more than he wants to.

It's not like I haven't seen Engarde on the verge of tears before. But ordinarily, he cries loudly and chaotically, great dramatic sobs and incoherent rambling, usually when he's under the influence of drugs or he's in a hypermanic state, reacting melodramatically to some perceived slight. Those times, he can be frustrating because he's hard to communicate with, because the tears can feel like a prop to aid his performance. But this time, it feels almost intrusive looking at him. 

"He thinks about me just like I used to think about all those women I fucked when I was famous," he says softly, a choked little sniffle rounding out the end of his statement. "I guess he's always felt like that."

I have a burning urge to dispute that statement with behaviour and comments I've heard from Kristoph himself. But I  _can't_ \-- I'm an observer, an impartial documentary-maker, I record and theorise and present my findings to parties who need to know what's happening-- as I said to Lily, I am  _not_  a relationship counsellor.

"Mr. Engarde," I tell him; "We need to formulate some working strategies for you."

He turns to me, angry and scorned. "Did you even  _tell_  him  _why_  I took the drugs?" he asks, correcting himself once more-- "I don't  _know_  why I did-- I did because they were there and I was bored and lonely and I missed him and--"

I'm thinking about my suggestion that Gavin was merely a replacement for his own self-destructive tendencies.  _Perhaps you've substituted hurting yourself for being hurt by Gavin._

That was the comment I made before the distastrous meeting  _last_  time he was in the hospital, just after the  _incident_  which saw him removed from the cell with Gavin. It seems like a lifetime ago, but I remember it clearly because of what ensued afterwards. I'm not bringing up that again, but I wonder if it's some sort of realisation or confession from him. 

"I can't act as a messenger between inmates," I tell him. "I can facilitate meetings but--"

"It's useless, anyway." He sighs, exhaling a deep, final-sounding breath. His voice has dropped to something just above a whisper. "I'm as good as dead out there any way."

He looks back at me, dewdrops of tears still remaining in his eyes but a stoic scowl on his face. "Let's face it, doc," he says, sounding resigned. "If Waverley wants, he can throw me back onto the unit in a heartbeat. Once that's happened, Wellington or Tigre or Behr or someone is going to kill me to impress Gant." He then looks frightened in a flash, and I watch as one hand scratches the other, picking at an old sore until blood pools like a giant red teardrop on one of his knuckles. Distracted from me, he watches it with almost tender fascination, as though willing for it to turn into a stream. 

  
"And then there's their backup plan," he tells me quietly. 

"You've spoken of this backup plan before," I remember, "Can you tell me what it  _is_?"

"If I do, I'm a rat," he says coldly. "I  _can't_." He looks thoughtful, his eyes wide and verging towards trusting. "Then again, perhaps the backup plan was what landed me in here-- if the drugs turned up because..." And he stops, looking at me as though he's just figured something out. "They want  _me_  charged with the drugs-- which is stupid."

He tilts his hand and miraculously, the blood stays where it was, suspended as though a magic trick. He wipes at it angrily, still looking at it and not me. "You know who I contacted though?" He chuckles, waiting for me to ask him. When I don't, he continues. "Waverley told me to get a good lawyer, so I got the nurse to ring the Darling Defense of the West or whatever they're calling him." He smirks at me, like his smile is a raised middle finger to the world, it's Matt Engarde and his brilliant plan. "That little shit in the red,  _his_  little protege-- that  _kid_  he was banging when he had the office."

"Do you think that's a sensible idea, Mr. Engarde?"

The smile drops and he stares at me. "Why?" he asks, almost sounding confused. "I can afford it."

"I'm not suggesting that you  _can't_ , but..." 

"Are you worried  _Gavin_  might be  _jealous_?" He grins angelically, before cackling to himself, bringing a bloodied index finger to his mouth and sucking the stain from it. 

"Is this about getting adequate legal representation or Gavin's attention?"

"It might very well be about something  _else_ ," he offers ominously.

"Would you like to talk about that--?"

He cuts me off, laughing again. "No, doc," he says dismissively. "I'll be fine-- write me from your books, I'm as good as dead anyway." And there's another disturbing laugh from him. "I'm just not going down without leaving some memories, dude."

He ignores me from then on, and I wonder if he truly  _has_  passed a point of no return. This seems beyond acting and malingering, he's  _damaged_  now. I wonder how long the bandage on his arm will stay there, and of the extent of the injury beneath it. 

And I walk away when Nurse Ree arrives to check on us; I ask Engarde if he needs anything before I go and he just smiles at me creepily. Ree murmurs something about medication under her breath and I tell her I'll discuss that later. When he's out of earshot later.

Engarde is escorted to his bed. When we get there, Lily's already waiting with observation sheets in her hands, and she nods to me. She offers Engarde a quiet  _hello_ , which he ignores. 

"Wanna see my  _muscles_?" he asks her with a mischievious giggle. "The doctor saw 'em last night and I think I made him  _sick_. I cut through layers of  _skin_." He smiles like a deranged clown. "And you'd better watch me carefully, 'coz I think I got the last person doing obs on me  _fired_."

"Lovely to see you too, Engarde," Lily says dryly. She looks down at his still-bleeding hand and says nothing else.

 

 

  
I return to my office, ready to draft an application for Engarde to be moved to the psychiatric unit. And then there's a message on my radio; Lily. 

"Pickup in the psychiatry office?" 

It's inside code for  _Answer your phone._  

I hope it's in regards to Parke's arrival and not about me needing to return to the hospital wing. Because I really could use that smoke break.

 

 

The phone in my office rings and I don't say anything when I pick it up. I get a flustered and angry sounding Lily, who says two things to me before hanging up.

"You aren't going to believe this shit. I need a witness-- get up here now and we can sort this out."

I'm stuck. I can't go asking for her location on the radio because Waverley will hear it, giving away the rendevous in the car park. So I make an executive decision-- she didn't call it over the radio, therefore it's likely she's calling from a phone-- most likely hers, most likely in the car park. And I've never heard her sound so flustered-- what's happened? Has Waverley found Parke? Is he attacking him? Has something gone somewhere where she needs  _me_ , a staff member she can trust-- rather than anyone else?

I put the phone down and  _move_ , running without running, towards the front. Grant sees me from the desk as I approach the airlock and looks up-- "Wow, you must really need that cigarette"-- and I rush past, not saying anything, not even going up to my locker to check out my smokes and lighter. I open the door, waiting for noise to indicate where they are-- yelling, discussion, anything.

Fresh air and silence. The car park is still, and I'm bewildered-- where  _are_  they?

It's when my duress alarm sounds and I hear a code grey called to the hospital wing that I realise I've stupidly miscalculated. And I run back inside, angry and confused and frantic.

 

* * *

  
"Where  _were_  you?" Lily's standing to the side of Engarde's hospital bed, and there's a struggle taking place in front of us. She's shaking; it's one of those details that I catch amongst the chaos, and there's a thump and Engarde's screams amongst the mass of bodies on the floor; I can't even  _see_  Engarde. All I can see is Waverley's back and the way his tucked in shirt strains against his pants; and there's a growl and a whine, Engarde snapping defensively "I have  _AIDS_ , cunt," and Caster and Field are struggling to shift him into position. An arm or a leg is pulled back and he howls furiously, and I can hear one of the workers grunt a "Right," and Engarde's choppy breathing over a "Careful with my arm, cunt," and Lily and I are staring at it in horror.

"What happened?" I ask. "He was okay earlier."

"Waverley came in," she says, still sounding like she doesn't believe what was going on. "They're returning him to the unit and he lost it. And he struck Engarde in the face." Her dialogue has reverted to cold clear statement, like she's giving testimony. She's speaking softly in spite of the noises around us and the shrill beep of the duress alarm. 

"Was it... provoked?"

"No," she says. "He--"

We're interrupted by Engarde submitting to restraint. He's on the floor with his arms twisted behind him, a look of pain and determination on his face like he wants to scream but doesn't want to give anyone the pleasure of seeing him cry out. Field is holding his legs, Waverley's crouched down next to him, pushing his hands into his shoulders. 

"Engarde, you've been here too many times before," Waverley says to him in disgust. "Carrying on like a bitch isn't going to win your boyfriend back."

Engarde doesn't say anything, and the duress alarm cuts out, switched off by persons unknown, granting us silence. His eyes are wet with tears and huge with fear and pain. He glances up at Waverley and doesn't say anything.

"I've had it with the histrionics and the  _shit_  from you. If it had been up to me, you could have gone to iso and died down their after your little dabble with drugs-- one problem off my hands, I'll say."

"You can't say that," Engarde gets out amongst gasps. He tries to shift under the grip of the three men. "Get off me, okay-- I can't  _breathe_." 

"You know the drill-- we'll get off you when you're safe."

"Okay," he whines. "I'm safe." 

Waverley gives Field and Caster a nod. "Up," Field says, and he's wrenched up, panting and gasping, grateful for air. His face is wet with tears and there's redness blooming against one of his cheeks amongst the scarring. 

He's given less than a second before Waverley nods to Field and Caster. "Cuff him and get him in my office," he says. 

Engarde's mouth opens but no words come out. 

Waverley indicates a folder on the bed. "You know what's in there?" he asks.

  
No response.

"I've got papers authorising you to be returned to the unit," he continues. "I'm sick of the bullshit, Engarde-- sick of all the craziness and all your stupid stunts-- from now on, you're back with us-- I'm not having you up here or pulling shit to get moved to iso-- you're a manipulative little fucker who has some gradiose idea he's  _special_."

Engarde's trembling, and I can imagine what he wants to say--  _But they want to kill me_. He doesn't protest though, which is unusual and frightening. It's as though he's given up entirely, like he knows he won't be listened to if he says anything.

"From now on, you get it through that not-so pretty little head of yours that you're just like everything else here. You do what they do. Eat what they eat. Sleep when they sleep. There's none of this Parke crap where you get away with thinking  _you_  run  _us_ , you dumb shit."

He grimaces, and notices the way Engarde's now looking around, noticing who's in the room. There's a moment where he recognises me and the look on my face, but he says nothing. 

"I don't give a fuck if you cut your fucking arm _off_ when you're back on the unit," Waverley tells him. "And neither does anyone else."

Engarde doesn't acknowledge that statement, but he glares outwardly, not looking Waverley in the eyes, but catching mine again.

 _What?_  I want to ask. My medical opinion is that he belongs in the psych ward. But that would mean overriding Waverley. Which would mean Smeer would be brought in for a second opinion, Smeer would determine he's fine to return to the unit. It's useless-- I'm aware of it as much as he is. 

Engarde just stares ahead and then speaks with resigned consideration--

"Put me in his room," he says in monotone. "Just let him kill me."

Waverley groans in an exaggerated fashion. "And I'll have none of that maligned lover faggotry in there, either," he snaps. "You'll room where I say you room."

Already, I know, Waverley's made a room plan worse than death for Engarde. Lily and I glance at one another uncertainly as he's escorted from the hospital.

 

 

* * *

There's a staff meeting afterwards and I notice Lily's eyes darting up to the security camera screens for most of it, trying to catch a glimpse of them in case Parke's familiar figure is shown in the car park. 

We haven't had a chance to talk any more and I feel the itch of wanting to, and the concern about Parke and missing him, and in the pit of my stomach is something worse: concern that I've failed Engarde. He wasn't wanting to  _die_  like this before. Gone is the frantic ridiculousness of his suicidal behaviour; it's like he's given up. A line from an old song about loving someone more than life itself occurs to me and I think about the fact that neither Gavin nor he ever used that four-letter word. 

 

“So-- room changes," Waverley says. He sounds annoyed and snappy, desperate for some sort of hold over everyone, but he can't stop the fact that everyone who doesn't know about the hospital duress alarm is mumbling in irritation at not knowing what went on and that at some level, Engarde has ruffled him. He reminds me of a wounded bird, puffing up its feathers in order to look bigger and meaner and more defensive than he really is.

"We're mixing things up a little-- some of the singles are getting a bit too used to having rooms to themselves, some of the doubles are buddying up a bit much for my liking-- I want it randomised now, no preferential treatment given to anyone." He pauses, having laid down the rules and then glances at us again. " _Plus_ ," he continues, "We got some new guys from the other units-- they sent them over a bit late, but hey, organisation in a place like this? Most of these guys couldn't organise a fuck in a whorehouse." 

He tosses a list onto the table for us to note and pass around. "I want every single one of these fuckers to know that they're no one special and that this ain't fucking summer camp."

Hamm grabs the list and holds onto it, reading what he can. He seems to recognise surnames well enough; his literacy issues only seem revealed when dealing with other things. He passes it onto Lily, and I glance over it as Waverley continues talking, laying down the law, talking about his great plans for structure and order and control on the unit. Curiously, he neglects to mention Engarde and the incident which took place earlier.

I've read the worrying combination before Lily nudges me.

 _34-- Engarde, M | | Gant, D_

Waverley's right, though: aside from that obvious rooming situation, he's mixed the unit up a bit. Crescend and Rolla. Kitaki, the elder, who's been moved to the unit away from his associates in the other unit, is to share with Wellington. Callander and Tigre. Behr and River. Stickler and Gold. Hackins and Tobaye. Gavin and Portsman. Many of them are new faces, or out-of-unit inmates I've not encountered before. I wonder whether they were moved to us because they're hopefully to have a calming effect on what's considered the most chaotic and dangerous unit in the prison, or they're from other units' too-hard baskets and they've been lovingly abandoned on our doorstep.

"Why'd you put Gant and Engarde in the same room?" Towne doesn't sound pleased. "Isn't that flirting with more drama?"

"Since they  _used_  to be friendly and now that Plan's gone and Wellington's down the other end, Gant will probably serve as a buffer to ease the tensions between Engarde and the rest of his friends," Waverley says. It's nice logic, clean and obvious, in that third-grade schoolteacher way where everyone can all be friends if they just try hard enough.

What Waverley, assuming he's operating from that logic-- and he probably isn't-- fails to understand is that tensions and rivalries don't go away that easily. And I know Waverley isn't stupid enough to believe that either.

It's hard not to think of conspiracies and grudges when you think about Waverley's executive decisions. Naivete can be a dangerous smokescreen.

"Okay." Field speaks up next, glancing over Towne's shoulder at the paper, and he sounds worried, as though in amongst the arrangements, Waverley somehow miscalculated something. "You've got Gavin and Portsman in 31-- the window of 31 looks right into 34 because it's on that corner, remember." 

A few of the rest of the staff seem to have drawn that conclusion themselves and there's a mumble amongst the seated.

"And?" Waverley asks.

"I just wonder how  _some people_  are going to react to that."

"To  _what_?" Waverley asks sweetly.

 

 

Engarde is returned to the unit during the room shuffle, having been held in a holding room and watched by Venn after the meeting with Waverley in his office. He doesn't walk in alone, as the new inmates from elsewhere in the prison arrive with him. And it's harrowing, the way that amongst connected guys from the other units, or the usually noticed green first-timers-- it's Engarde who steals the limelight.

Room changes are disruption which annoy the inmates; no one's happy to be shifted around as though it's musical chairs. Order gets under your skin in this place and you expect it, and when it's thrown out of order, it's like the system is fucking with  _you_ , I suppose: you get accustomed to order and predictability, and then the powers that be decide to throw a spanner into the works and mess with that, as though they're telling you not to get too damned comfortable.

  
When Engarde emerges from the supplies area with a towel and some bedding and a bag of toiletries, he's met with catcalls and threats in ways that the others-- a skinny dark haired young man who looks terrified-- first timer-- and a solid, cynical-eyed blonde with piercing pale blue eyes-- should have received but don't. 

  
He's right: everyone hates him. Even if they don't explicitly want him dead, he knows they won't be upset or willing to lag if someone does kill him. As Crescend told me, he's a dead man.

Gavin's new room mate, Portsman, doesn't elicit the same reaction when he arrives, and Gavin, seated on a plastic chair and re-reading  _My Best Friend_ , in the central area, seems oblivious to the rukus and to Engarde's-- and the others'-- arrival. He isn't a man changed by the system; he's hauntingly the same aloof creature capable of maintaining a space untouched by the confines of prison life. Either that, or he's withdrawn into himself after the chaotic changes.

No: he doesn't do that. He looks perfectly relaxed as he turns the page, his left index finger rested photogenically underneath his chin, as though he should really be reclining in that chair he'd managed to acquire in his former cell years ago, surrounded by ornate and well-stocked book cases. 

Even when there are jeers across the room-- "Hey, it's Gavin's junkie boyfriend!"-- "Your boyfriend's back, Gav!"-- he ignores the scene around him, continuing to read as though their raucous, petty comments don't even occur to him.

From the top decking, Waverley orders a count and then explains what is going to happen, where everyone will be situated. It all quickly becomes a blur of names and noise and moving, but the two things I will remember from the incident are the look of desperation on Engarde's face as he walks past Gavin, obviously hungering for some interaction, some acknowledgement. But Gavin is still reading; as oblivious to Engarde as he is to anyone else. He doesn't even momentarily look up and notice his former ... _associate_. 

The second thing is the expression of triumph on Gant's as his new room mate is announced. It's a filthy smirk which contrasts greatly to Engarde's initial open-mouthed horror, followed by a glance in Gavin's direction. Gavin has reluctantly put the book down and has his back turned and his eyes on the chestnut-haired, wiry looking newcomer next to him, Portsman, whom I haven't met yet. He's obviously a transfer, given the walk and the appearance; in stark contrast to the others who've appeared with Engarde and had a relatively quiet welcome after walking in behind the most hated man on the floor.

I try to watch everything that's going on, but I'm drawn to the similarities I cannot help but notice between Portsman and Engarde, as Gavin politely holds the door for him as they enter their new cell together. I wonder if Gavin has noticed the similarities too.

I can only imagine that Engarde, his face unreadable as he follows Gant into  _his_  new cell-- has.

 

 

 

Everything goes to hell at lunchtime. 

Of course, when it happens, I'm in my office, scrolling through notes on my computer, trying to predict what could happen with the new rooming arrangements and worrying about Engarde's declining mental health. On my desk are screwed up transfer forms which I'd never started filling out to have him moved to the psychiatric unit. 

And now Waverley's overridden me and he's rooming with Gant. 

  
It's just after 1:30 when the ear-splitting scream of the duress alarm destroys my silence and solitude; then comes the crackle and the panic on the radio, and the distressing yelp of "Man down, man down, A-wing kitchen," and poised for action, I spring from my seat. 

I was meant to be interviewing two of the new ones today; Portsman and Tobaye. All I know about either of them is what's in the notes; Portsman was getting too big for the fishpond of Protective and starting to throw his weight around, and there were suspicions, apparently, that he and his former crime boss were looking at somehow extending their business to within the walls of the prison. Alba, his partner in crime, was elderly and beginning to show signs of dementia; unlike sharp-minded Gant, incarceration had broken rather than invigorated him, leaving Portsman a nice cover if he wanted to take over the game, and a hell of a lot of pwer in his hands. The decision had been made to shift the younger of the two, and since Portsman had enemies whom he'd sent to prison in every other unit, he'd been dumped at the doors of A-wing.

Tobaye was a different kettle of fish entirely. He'd been convicted of involvement in smuggling highly dangerous goods from his native Borginia into America years ago, and campaigns from human rights groups and high-powered diplomats had left him serving his time in America rather than being deported to face the death penalty at home. A few years on and he'd morphed from being a sweet-looking angelic choirboy into a tall, muscle-bound monster with thin pale hair catching just in front of his eyes, a hardened and ruthless glare, and home-made tattoos from his time in juvie. We'd received him after he'd assaulted two workers and had threatened to kill a fellow inmate. He had years of his sentence remaining, and at seventeen, had well outgrown his days in juvenile detention. He was the youngest inmate we'd housed for years; an improbable situation but not an impossible one.

  
Stepping outside my office and standing on the catwalk connecting the professional offices, I look down into the unit, trying to make out what is happening in the kitchen and who the man down happens to be. There's a struggle, a scrum of workers and the majority of the population still eating their meal. Perhaps the room changes have subdued everyone somewhat, after the lockdown most of them just want to get back on with the little movement and freedom they're afforded. To the new admissions, they're inexperienced-- they don't yet know what lockdown feels like. I assume, then, that the announcement involves them.

I watch as a group of workers remove the two offending inmates-- it's a tight pack of bodies and I cannot make out the face of the first man. He's the one pulled up from the floor; he staggers, the crimson flash of fresh blood apparent on his face, and he's holding a hand over his mouth. Lily and Towne have him, and they're walking him from the kitchen. 

The next one emerges seconds later-- bloodied and still struggling like an animal caught in a trap, it's Tobaye, the new one. He's furious, struggling against the grips of four other workers, wild-faced and trying to break free. He's screeching in what is presumably Borginian, and it continues when he's unceremoniously shoved into isolation. 

The rest of the kitchen looks peaceful, however, and there seems to be minimal involvement from the staff in keeping it that way. As Tobaye screams Borginian death threats out to Field and Caster, my gaze drifts back to the kitchen and I sigh. Today I was meant to be seeing Parke. Now I'm just awaiting more paperwork, more interviews, and to get the hell out for the day.

 

 

"Who needs Engarde when we have that train wreck?" Waverley is smiling in a determined, sarcastic sort of way. "What-- two hours and he's already blown a fuse?" 

"Send him back." The way Towne is holding his arm makes me suspect he was one of the first into the fight, and that he didn't escape completely uninjured. 

"Back  _where_?"

"Juvie? Borginia? I dunno-- this kid's a fucking firecracker. You realise what's going to happen, now, don't you? We wait for his shitfits and everyone else uses them as diversionary tactics."

"He's not going back to Borginia because some bleeding heart human rights pinkos don't think a kid should face the death penalty," Waverley growls. "And he's not going back to juvie because they can't manage him there, either." 

A collective sigh moves around the staffroom and then Field speaks up. 

"Why isn't he in one of the gen pop units?" Caster asks. 

Waverley clears his throat, as though he's quite pained to be bothering explaining it. In a way, he's right: we don't need explanations because like it or not, whatever rationale decided it, we're stuck with him. "The small time unit's full and there are concerns that Tobaye has violent tendencies, and there are concerns that he may have affiliates in with the organised crime gangs."

Caster rolls his eyes. "He was fourteen when they nabbed him."

"Yeah, and we don't know what he was mixed up with over in his home country or who he might know or be connected to." Waverley's grim-faced. "They've got a few Borgs over there, too, and the last thing we need is the Borginian mob throwing their weight around. Those guys are ruthless."

"How is Callander, anyway?" Caster asks, shifting the topic.

"He attacked  _Callander_?" Caster looks confused. "Fill me in here; weren't there concerns because he knows  _Crescend_?"

Waverley nods. "Yep-- but he ignored him. Just decked Callander. And seriously, folks-- Callander's--"

"A prominent child abuser," Field says. "Tobaye probably saw that guy on TV when he was in juvenile detention. And perhaps he knows the system well enough to know that you can impress people or incite fear by throwing your weight around when you first show up." 

Lily nods. "He was quite organised about what he did," she says thoughtfully. "He waited around the back of the line until most of the rest of them were seated... he didn't just pick a fight, either-- did anyone else see that?"

"I was too busy watching Engarde shooting pathetic looks across the room in Gavin's direction."

Waverley smirks. "Seems that our friendly neighbourhood psychopath now has his designs on Portsman," he says. "That'll make things interesting, won't it?" He chuckles, cutting off Lily effortlessly. "Anyone taking bets on which one'll win?"

"Portsman," someone says. "I heard he would work out in his room." 

"My money's on Engarde," Caster says. "He's got insanity on his side. And pain doesn't faze him--"

"My  _point_ ," Lily continues, ignoring them-- "Is that Tobaye doesn't seem crazy."

"None of them do." I find myself hating Waverley a little bit more then; it's the condescending note in his voice, like he's talking down to a small child. "All of them seem perfectly balanced. Before they actually  _do_ something crazy."

Lily looks at him frostily. "No," she says slowly. "You didn't see the way he just looked at him and approached him-- it was  _calculated_."

Field nods. "The kid knew what he was doing, I'll say," he says. "He's trying to make a name for himself-- but--"

I know there's something coming with the  _but_ , and Waverley sighs.

"He's a new admission," he fills in, "And he's been deemed vulnerable by the state, so he's going to need to get put on obs and to be evaluated."

My day has just gotten busier. But I was expecting that.

 

 

The haunting thing about Tobaye is that he's a peaceful-looking, albeit dangerous creature. Despite the conditioning in juvie, and the attempt at the walk with a swagger, there is still something light and elegant in his movement; he manages to be graceful amidst the bad pock-mark tattoos and his height and the muscles. He is intimidating to me in the same way that Behr or Callander is; it's not what I see with him that worries me, it's the potential that you  _don't_  see. He's nearly six foot of iceberg.

He sits down calmly, his hands still streaked with the rusty dull orange of dried blood, and a perfectly relaxed look on his face.

"Hello, Mr. Tobaye," I say. His notes have told me that English is not his native language and that for the first couple of years of his sentence in juvenile detention, he kept to himself, avoiding social contact and conversation. He rarely participated in literacy and English classes after taunts from his contemporaries, and was virtually silent for a long time. He relished playing the piano when he could, in juvie music classes, and devoid of an audience who might have used his talent as another excuse to bully him. 

He nods, his eyes still big and blue and childlike innocent despite the rest of him looking like maybe a decade of hardened criminal. It's hard not to look at him and think that he's only a few years older than Anna, that all it could take is a few short months and some wrong decisions and my daughter could age much faster than she should. I try to push that thought to the back of my head, concentrating on him instead.

"You are the psychologist?" he asks, but it sounds more like a statement, as though he's only thought to add a question mark at the end of the sentence. His voice is soft and gravelly, uncertain and close to fearful. His accent, if I had to place it, not having met any Borginians before, sounds like a strange blend of Russian and Scandinavian. 

"I'm the prison's psychiatrist," I tell him. "Which is a bit different, but--"

 _But I'm essentially a psychologist in this environment_ , I want to tell him, but don't.

"I had psychologists in juvenile detention," he tells me. "They wanted me to talk."

I nod, uncertain of whether he feels intimidated by, or welcoming of the prospect of talking to me.

"Do you want to talk to me?"

"That depends on what you want to hear." The language barrier hasn't interfered with his caution and suspicion. "What do you want to hear, Doctor?"

"Let's talk about what happened earlier."

He leans forward and looks at me intently, watching my face before he answers. "I am moved to the prison," he says. "I am sharing room with boy named Hackins. I am told this is for protection."

"How do you feel about that?"

"Hackins is idiot," he says. "Hackins should not be here. He in for minor crime-- celebrity stalking." He shrugs. "In Borginia, that normal." 

"Mr. Tobaye," I say gently, "We try not to talk about other inmates in here." He flinches, looking unimpressed, and I wonder if he's got a head full of questions and only agreed to talk to me because he was hoping for more information on other people. "This session is about  _you_." 

He relaxes slightly, nodding. "Right."

"So..." I'm not sure where to start, but lunchtime seems as good as any. "I understand that you assaulted another inmate while you were in the kitchen."

He nods, unflinching, calm. "Yes," he says. "Julian Callander is bad man."

"Did Callander do anything to you before the incident?"

"I saw him on news," he says. "He kidnapped children. He  _hurt_  them." There's defiance in his voice, and no remorse. "In Borginia, penalty for that is death." The final word is one of bitterness, and I can understand why. In Borginia, he, too, faced the death penalty, for a far lesser crime compared to what Callander did. And I wonder if Callander's criminal nature upsets Tobaye because of his own history.

His eyes are steely and cold, locked doors.

  
"We used to have the death penalty here," I tell him. "It was revoked only recently."

"Death penalty is barbaric," he says, mispronouncing the word quite strangely. His face doesn't change. "Some deserve barbaric."

"Do you believe Callander deserved that?"

He shrugs. "People unlikely to fuck with me after  _that_." There. A hint of pride in his voice; he's familiar with this aspect of incarceration. "Callander have no friends either. I make no enemies." 

"By assaulting people, Mr. Tobaye, you're making things considerably difficult for yourself, though. Do you really want to do that here?"

  
He looks unperturbed. "So?" he asks. "In juvenile detention facility, I did worse." He smiles slightly. "They didn't fuck with me. Didn't like me, either, but stayed away. They were scared of me." And there's that smile again, peaceful and triumphant.

"How are you feeling about being in here?" I ask him. He stares at me blankly, not moving.

"Scared?" I ask. "Angry? Curious? You have--" I look down at his notes. "You have a year and a half left until you're up for parole." I look back up at him. "For someone of your age, that's a considerable amount of time. Especially when you're spending it in A-wing."

He shrugs. "A-wing not hard time," he says casually. "The manager, Waveherfree, tells me this isn't professional criminal wing. That A wing is for a- a- different criminals."

 _Atypical_. He's right. They're atypical in that they're usually  _not_  well-connected, they're not hardened crims when they come in, but they're unmanageable elsewhere. 

"Waverley," I correct him, ignoring the suggestion that might be that A-wing is somehow softer than all the other units. "Did you talk to him?"

The look on his face changes slightly to something interested. "Waverley tells me there are well-known men here." Another flash of interest from him. "I saw Kristoph Gavin."

 _Great_. He's the last thing I want to be talking about. And I have a strange urge to tell Tobaye to stay away from him, but can't as he interrupts me. "He's Klavier Gavin's brother."

"Yes," I say. It's not like I'm disclosing anything he doesn't know. He smiles at me again. "People talk," he says. "Though I haven't talked to Gavin yet." 

 _Please don't_.

"I want to," he says defiantly. "I  _plan_  to."

Something in my face must betray me then, something I don't even realise, because his expression changes too. "You think this is bad idea?"

"I'm not here to discuss other inmates, Mr. Tob--"

"People say he organised for Klavier Gavin to be bashed and raped," he says in monotone. I don't know how he feels about that, and he offers no more clues. The last thing I want is some kind of fallout between more inmates. That's the last thing the unit needs. Even Waverley, as much as I have no respect for him, doesn't need to add that to the list of things he can't manage.

"From inside his cell," he continues.

"How do you feel about this?" I ask, trying to shift the conversation back to where it should be; on  _him_ \-- are you worried for your safety?"

"No." Though the way he shifts might suggest otherwise. It's subtle, but it's movement more than he's made before, except when he relaxed in the seat. 

"People say he is homosexual." He pronounces the word like he's unfamiliar with it. "In Borginia we do not talk about that."

I don't say anything in response to him, but he suddenly looks panicked. "I am not homosexual," he says. "I have girlfriend. She visits me in juvenile detention. She come visit me here too."

I assume he means in the future, on visiting days.

"When did you meet her?" 

"In juvenile detention," he says. "She was Borginian fan writing to me. Her family leave country and move here." He smiles. "She is beautiful," he says. And there's a different smile on his face now, pure and sweet and happy. "I could be blind and I would still think her beautiful." 

"I'm pleased to hear that you have support," I tell him.

"I love her," he says. "We will be married when I leave prison." And he smiles again at the thought. I wonder about the girlfriend, if she's fully aware of what her boyfriend is truly capable of. But I don't say anything about that, and neither does he.

"When do I return to unit?" he asks.

  
"That all depends on your behaviour and how Waverley feels about you being safe."

"I am safe," he says. "I am calm."

He's right. He is calm, disturbingly so for someone who's only been here a few hours and who's already caused someone serious injuries.

"So I return to unit?" he asks.

"Do you think you've finished up here?"

He shrugs. "I don't really know what to talk about." He smiles at me. "Perhaps if you speak Borginian, it be different." There's an awkwardness to his dialogue, like he's still aware of the barrier.

"You don't need to worry about that, Mr. Tobaye. Your English is very good for someone who has only learned it in two years and who was a recluse in juvenile detention." 

He smiles. "You read files," he says. "Or you talk to people." 

"I like knowing what I'm dealing with," I say with a smile of my own.

"I do too." 

"A lot of people won't give you straight answers around here, Mr. Tobaye." 

He looks at me quizzically and then shrugs. "Perhaps I go back to being recluse then," he tells me. But then there's another one of those strange, more than remotely interested glimmers which shoots through his eyes. 

"Do you have a piano in A-wing?"

I'm not sure it's available for use, though. I remember seeing it come out for the Smile Time Variety Show, and I remember the way Behr played it, lost in his music for a few minutes.

"Do you still play, Mr. Tobaye?" He shifts on his seat again. 

"Machi," he says. "Call me Machi." 

I nod. Usually I offer formalities, unless expressly asked. And now that he's asked, I ask again-- "Machi? Do you still play piano?" 

"I wish to." His answer is clipped and quiet. "Music is good for me." 

For some reason, I think then of Behr and  _Fur Elise_ , of Crescend and his screaming guitar, of Gavin... and his old Leonard Cohen songs in solitary. Music inspires, and it inspires confidence in oneself, I suppose. 

"I can have a talk to management about that." And I plan to. "Is there anything else you'd like which could make your time here easier?"

He stands up, sensing that our time is over. I wanted to speak with him for longer, but I suspect he's going to be a tough nut to crack, and that perhaps part of me doesn't really  _want_  to  _crack_  him. He's nearly six foot of vulnerable teenage boy who is putting up a front and who has a darkness which he never should have acquired. 

"Machi?" I ask.

"I am ready to go now," he says. 

"Okay." 

Hamm is walking past the door, and Machi catches his eye, obviously doing something to suggest that he wait. He does, looking in through the window, and I try again.

"Is there anything you would like to make your time here--?"

"Kristoph Gavin," he says in a low undertone, a little smirk forming on his lips. 

"Machi, if this is because you wish to--"

"Never mind, Doctor," he tells me breezily. "I only wish to shake his hand."

His smile fades just as suddenly as it appeared, and he walks to the door. I radio for Hamm to come in, and watch as the two of them step away and out onto the floor. I feel like I've unleashed something onto the unit which I should have known how to contain.


	28. Pink Card Strategy

I don't sleep well that night. It's a hollow, light, dreamless sleep where I wake frequently and look at the lights of the numbers on the alarm clock next to my bed every few hours, and I wonder where the time went as though I can't quite believe that I've been sleeping. 

When I arrived home, I longed for Anna to ring, but I did not call her. I couldn't, not in the state of mind I was in when I walked through my door; tired and stressed and completely at a loss about everything. All I know is that something's brewing and it's not going to be pleasant when it erupts.

And I miss Lauryn. 

Yet I cannot talk to her, either; I can't just ring out of nowhere and expect her to listen to me, and there's nothing she could say anyway. I wonder if our friendship's severed, or if she's just grown tired of what it was, the two of us listening to one another, learning about things we weren't meant to, being caught up in the dramas of our patients in a way that we were never supposed to be. I long for normalcy. Desperately.

But I don't get it; I get broken sleep and my mind ticking overtime, and wondering what new awfulness the day will bring.

  


 

  
When I arrive at work, it's beautifully quiet. It's early, I shouldn't be here this early, but I have time to prepare myself a cup of coffee and to hit the office. I poke through files; I update Tobaye's-- Machi's-- and I go over my usual suspects'. Tigre has a transfer interview at the end of the week, he may want to see me before then. Then there's Callander, who was returned to their room, his split lip stitched and numbed, and his demeanor quiet and withdrawn, according to the case notes. He's been deemed safe to return to his work in the laundry, and he's on observations. He is, most likely, terrified.

Tobaye was returned to his room after a discussion with management, which amounted to little more than a warning, and where he offered assurances that he would not engage in behaviour risking either himself or other people in the prison. He agreed to this freely and casually, and the typical consequence of isolation or solitary confinement was explained to him, according to a memo from Waverley. His calm about the whole thing seems oddly familiar, I realise as I switch off my computer for the walk downstairs to the unit. 

All is quiet on the floor when I walk through; inmates seem to be either sleeping peacefully, or preparing themselves for the day ahead. Wellington preens in front of the aluminium mirror affixed to his wall above the toilet, while on the bottom bunk, Big Wins Kitaki still sleeps, his chest rising and falling with his breath.

Behr is combing his hair back and listening to his new cellmate, River, who is talking to him from the bottom bunk. I've not yet met River; he looks like he knows the system and is well-accustomed to prison life.

Crescend paces, I've noticed; while Rolla sits on the toilet. If they like one another or hate one another, I cannot deduce that much from watching them; they appear indifferent or it's too early for friendship or rivalry.

Curiously, Gavin sleeps with his feet to the door, facing the back wall. Most of them don't; facing the window means they can look out and see what's going on around them; who is conducting night observations, when others fall asleep, what's happening in the room opposite if they can see in-- 

My gaze automatically shifts to the room opposite. Engarde is awake, washing his hands at the little sink provided next to the toilet. Gant is shifting around on the bottom bunk-- and then I see it, jammed in against the frame of the bed and the mattress, an anomaly which shouldn't be there-- what appears to be a pink card. 

 

  
What was Lily talking about? It's not come up in conversation, but I can see it there; about the same size and shape as a playing card, but I can't make out which one it is. Is there symbolism tied up with the card-- is it a Joker, a court card, or a seemingly forgettable number with some message that I'm unaware of? Or perhaps, in this card, perhaps a card is just a card.

Engarde doesn't notice me peering in, initially, and I try to get a better look at the card. It's blank, barring what looks like a pink image of some sort on it; a strange, spiky-looking shell. No numbers or suits.

"What?" he walks over to me at the door, looking sullen and angry. He's awake, but there's a sense of irritation and carelessness about him. 

I don't know what to say. I don't want to upset him, but I don't want to ignore him either.

He eyes me warily. "Don't we have a session later today, doc?" he asks, one arm pressed up against the triple-glazed glass of the window. It's a defensive gesture, like he's challenging me or being vaguely threatening. Behind a clear panel where he can't actually hurt me. 

  
My voice drops to a murmur. Looking in at him like this, I feel like I've intruded upon his private space; he's not used to seeing me here, after all. 

"I'll see you then, Mr. Engarde."

I walk on as Gant shifts in the bed below. I'm shocked by his coldness, and I want to ask Lily about that card.

 

 

 

* * *

 

"Why did you ask about the pink card?" I ask her. We're out the front, smoking together, and her eyes are on the carpark. Parke had called the communications office; a risky move but had anyone else answered, he was apparently going to say that he was wanting to ask for payroll's number so he could sort out his holiday leave payments. Instead, he'd advised Lily he was stopping by for another visit and some more news.

"Oh," she says-- "That."

"I saw it in Gant and Engarde's room this morning. I know what you're talking about now."

"It didn't come up in conversation, did it?" she asks with a smile. Our radios crackle together and there's a call for someone to escort Engarde to the meeting room.

"Speak of the devil," she mutters. 

"Who's he meeting?" 

"His lawyer." 

I wonder if that lawyer is still going to be Apollo Justice, aka "that  _kid_." I haven't spotted Justice hanging around anywhere, and I assume he came in before Lily and I left the unit.

There's a groan in her voice when she mentions the lawyer. I give her a sympathetic look. 

"I knew things would get heated when they split," she says ominously. "I don't even think we've begun to see what they're both capable of."

I raise my eyebrows, thinking of what Tobaye told me. "Word around the unit is that what happened to Klavier was Gavin's doing." 

"And then there's Redd White," Lily says bitterly. "And the assault on Crescend." She exhales, sounding tired. "But we've all seen Engarde's brand of crazy. And we haven't actually seen it directed  _at_  anyone specific yet. Just workers who happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"He doesn't like Waverley much."

  
"Waverley scares him. And he's manipulative enough to use his animousity towards other people to goad them into doing things for him."

"Like Wellington and Dr. Smeer?"

She nods. "He set that up for Gavin, apparently. And he's scared of Wellington because he's backed up by Gant and Tigre--" 

"Not for much longer, if Tigre gets transferred."

She opens her packet of cigarettes and pinches one out, placing it to her lips, her eyes still scanning the car park. In her other hand there's a flash of silver and flame, and she's smoking. Parke still hasn't appeared. 

"I hope he does," she says. "He's getting on, he's mellowing out. For the first time in his life he seems to give a shit about something other than showing everyone else how big his balls are."

I nod. "He's got an exit interview this week."

"...And if he goes," she says, thinking, "That might make Gant pull his head in a bit; I'm sure he'll still intimidate the people who are already scared of him, but he might act a bit more cautiously without having the physical presence of Tigre around."

  
"Wellington wants to be the new right-hand man."

Lily chuckles. "I think I'm more intimidated by that Hackins kid." She blows out a plume of blue-grey smoke and turns to me. "Who knows?" she asks. "If Engarde gets back in with Gant and co, maybe--"

I shake my head, already expecting what she's still saying--

"Maybe Wellington and Engarde will settle."

"I don't think so." I suck in on my own cigarette, and instead of blowing smoke out with the elegant force she does, it wafts out of my mouth, escaping. "I get the distinct impression that Gant and Engarde are merely tolerating one another. I think Engarde's just aware of how isolated he'd be without Gant's apparent backup."

"They were noted down as being ICC last night," she says wryly.

ICC-- observation shorthand for  _In Close Contact_. What you put down where there's no evidence anything else is actually happening, but you feel you should write something.

"Engarde didn't seem happy this morning," I tell her. "He was looking quite defensive, actually." 

"He's not pleased to be back on the unit, is all," Lily says. "Mind you, if I was sharing a room with Gant, I wouldn't be pleased to be back, either-- I could  _kill_  Waverley for doing that."

I nod in agreement, about to voice my own concerns about something, but both of us manage to notice something in the distance at the same time; an elongated shadow across the bitumen of the carpark, and the familiar walk heading towards us. 

Parke, as promised, had returned.

 

 

 

Parke smiles as he realises that I'm standing next to Lily. But the smile is brief and fleeting, and replaced with a dark scowl after I've said hello and asked how he is.

"I'm coming back  _here_ , aren't I?" He doesn't sound impressed. "I had  _Waverley_  ring me this morning, even: he wants my advice on how to shut Engarde up."

"I don't think anyone knows how to do that-- except--" Lily stops herself, and then the joking tone is replaced by a wariness. "What's he talking about?"

"The drugs." Parke sounds suspicious. "There have been things that... I dunno." He looks at us as though he's about to regret what he is going to say. "Things aren't adding up here, and it bothers me. I've misssed a lot and--"

"Engarde's been scattered, though," Lily says. "He went off tap at Field and Denham and trashed the music room and then there were the drugs--"

I just nod along, but I'm liking the way Parke looks unconvinced. I've seen chaotic behaviour from Engarde before, but there seemed to be a motivating factor in the music room case. And the drug use could be attributed to him missing Gavin. Or  _wanting_  to overdose so he could see him in hospital, I think grimly: he's scattered, but that doesn't mean he's stupid or incapable of being manipulative. 

"It wasn't just you two and Waverley who rang me," he says quietly.

"Oh?" I'm now thinking that deNong may have come to his senses and realised just how dangerous and incompetent Waverley is, and I'm hopeful. I can feel the muscles in my face twisting with a smile; if deNong gets into this mess and sees just how badly managed everything is, all this could be over.

"Have we got Field with us as well?" Lily asks. She sounds hopeful. The way we're practically assessing sides bothers me, but at least it's better than feeling alone, I suppose.

Parke nods, but dismissively. "Both the Fields are  _pissed_ ," he says. "Cam's saying Waverley's responsible for what happened with Engarde because rather than defusing the situation, he made it worse which put staff in danger. Knox is hardly stopping people talking about it on the unit. Everyone knows."

Lily nods. "I agree with him. Engarde apparently lost it when Waverley kept taunting him about a cavity search. And Waverley, being his usual charming self, didn't break it professionally or kindly, either: he probably made it sound like some sort of threat or punishment."

"You'd think Engarde would go in for that stuff, but--" Parke trails off. He'd started trying to make a joke which he's just realised isn't very funny. "I didn't see it, I can't comment. But what I am commenting on-- I got another phone call."

"DeNong?" I ask hopefully.

Parke shakes his head. "Nope. _Kristoph Gavin_ somehow has my phone number." He pauses as though he's just suffered the aftershocks of stating a traumatic, unbelievable secret for the first time ever.

Lily and I glance at one another. "How'd he get it?" she asks. "Wouldn't that show up on the record?" Her mouth hangs open, horrified. 

The phones used by the prisoners are audited. Phonecalls can be listened into at any time by the desk jockeys and management. For most of the population, their calls are screened randomly, to avoid diversion. For some inmates, those regarded as high risk or possibly a potential threat, or still involved with criminal activities, calls are automatically overheard. There is no random chance that someone might not be listening in if you're Kristoph Gavin. The audacity throws me: he should  _know_  he can't do that. 

"Not if his previous room mate Tom Moreau told him what to do to override the call destination ID and make it look like he dialled the traffic information hotline instead." Parke's voice is grim. "And  _yes_ , he explained how he did it. He seemed quiet pleased with himself."

"No shame," I mutter. 

"But... to me, that was telling me two things: the first being that Waverley doesn't know how to manage Gavin, who  _needs_  to be managed if he's able to pull off a stunt like that-- and secondly, that he's not exactly managing the unit either." He looks at us, his eyes heavy and dark, like he hasn't slept in a long time.

"So... he rang you?" Lily asks slowly. " _Gavin_  rang you?"

  
Parke nods, inhaling on his cigarette. "It reminds me of when I was working on the softer units when I started; the guys you'd expect to see released." He blinks. "I'd go down to the grocery store and quite randomly see some convicted drug dealer on parole, taking his kids out for an icecream after he'd done his time." He pauses thoughtfully. "It isn't that you don't expect to see that-- you just don't expect that on your home turf."

"And you really don't expect them to be calling you at home."

He nods again. "I wonder if he's called every M Parke in the telephone directory," he says. "Or--"

"You don't think he's going to call anyone else?" Lily asks quickly.

"I think he's known how to make calls like that for a long time," Parke says. "Because Moreau's been gone for awhile. So he's had that up his sleeve for several weeks, a couple of months, but only decided to pull it out  _now_ , to talk to  _me_. And that seems to suggest that things are pretty much  _fucked_  on the floor."

"I wonder what else he knows," I mutter quietly, but Lily's voice drowns out my wondering. 

"So why did he call you?" 

Parke blows out another stream of smoke. "He says he's concerned about the way Waverley's running the show and about the rooming changes," he says.

" _He's_  rooming with that prosecutor who was involved with the smuggling ring," Lily says. "They seem to be getting along." She shrugs, and searches for another cigarette.

"Engarde and Gant though? He's not happy about that. At  _all_."

I wonder why. He'd apparently all but cut Engarde out of his life, with no concern for him. Perhaps the disgust is purely territorial; he doesn't like Gant touching his  _stuff_. Or it could be a convincing excuse to talk to Parke to complain when a simple "Waverley doesn't know what he's doing" won't work. 

"Did he tell you that he abandoned Matt Engarde after the drug overdose?" Lily asks him. "That he actually dropped Engarde when they were both in hospital?"

Parke looks disgusted. "Shit," he mutters.

"Yeah: and after that, it's back to normal for Gavin while Engarde goes to looking even more pathetic, watching him like an abandoned child waiting for mom and dad to come home." 

That reminds me of... other interactions Gavin's had. Klavier. Apollo. Possibly, somewhere beneath the anger, Wright. 

"I suppose he has a lasting effect on people," I offer quietly. "Of course, it's just the magnetic personality and the manipulation and--"

I'm starting to wonder how much of this I believe. Could there have been some part of Gavin that loved these people enough for them to recognise it and to put themselves at risk for it?

"Whatever it is, I think some part of him's decent enough to be concerned about the unit. Maybe he just prefers me as a manager." Parke shrugs. "Or somehow Waverley's rule is making life difficult for him."

Lily sucks in her breath then, casts me a sideways glance, and then looks at Parke. "I think it's that," she says. "I don't think he's  _decent_. He's just better at appearing to be so than most of them are." She glances at me and I don't say anything. "And that just makes him a hell of a lot more dangerous." Maybe she's wanting me to bite, to argue. I don't.

"Did he say anything about his own extended stay in hospital?" she asks. " _That_  could be pissing him off."

"I knew he was in hospital after Klavier gave him a thrashing."

  
I murmur with disbelief and Lily speaks up again.

"I think Waverley had something to do with some of them," she says. And she tells him quickly about Gavin dropping the charges against his brother, about Gavin's disappearance and reemergence in the hospital, and about the forged observation documents. 

Parke, in typical fashion, swears, but the look of horror on his face isn't usual for him when he does so. "That means Gavin has this place by the balls," he spits out furiously. "He  _can_  sue for that-- and he's well within his right to--  _fuck_." A clenched fist is thrown down in anger and what looks like defeat.

  
I just nod. 

"Why did he talk to you and not tell you that, though?" Lily asks. "Doesn't that seem  _odd_?"

"He wanted to know when I'd be back," Parke says. "He said he needs to speak with me-- which makes me think he wants to cut some sort of deal with him." 

"What could you offer him?"

"Perhaps he wants a transfer," he says. "From my understanding, word on the unit has it that a few of them are wanting out and with the right papers signed, they might just be eligible."

"I don't get it." It feels like a while since I've spoken, and I notice that my cigarette has all but died away into ash and filter. I drop it on the ground and consider Parke's theory. "That doesn't make sense though: all his associates are around here-- in this state, anyway. Why would he want to leave?" I rub the back of my neck and feel sweat. "Gavin likes having a plan in place, a strategy. He wouldn't just throw it to the wind and risk going somewhere else like that."

"Maybe he's going to make a bid for clemency," Lily suggests.

Parke laughs. "I can't see that happening," he says. "And I don't think he's stupid enough to think he'd get it." He stops. "Maybe he's arrogant enough to try that, though."

Lily answers dryly. "Good luck to him."

"Lord help the community if that happened." Parke rolls his eyes-- "No-- I don't think he wants out. I think he wants something else-- something he thinks he can  _get_ \-- and that bothers me-- because what would he  _want_?"

"He seems to have taken a shine to Portsman," Lily says, and I find myself curious. "Have he and Tobaye interacted at all?"

Lily groans. " _That_  one's going to be a problem," she says. "He's a mess-- and he's methodical."

"Tobaye?" Obviously Gavin didn't mention him to Parke.

"New guy," Lily explains. "A Borginian kid who was handed over to us because they couldn't handle him in juvie."

  
"So why do  _we_  get him?" 

"Because he's a high-publicity offender, he's got a long sentence, everywhere else is full, and there are concerns he might have connections with Borginian crime syndicates." 

"Oh,  _fantastic_." Parke doesn't look pleased. "What's he in for again?"

"Smuggling."

  
"So why's he in  _our_  unit?" 

"Especially since we've got Crescend and that prosecutor in here too," Lily mutters. "Tobaye was initially accused of the murder Crescend committed, and through that trial, the smuggling operation came out. And that prosecutor was involved with the Amano group--"

"Amano?" Parke asks. " _Lance_  Amano?" 

A weird silence falls over us then. Amano was a spoilt, clueless son of a corrupt businessman who'd become mixed up in a kidnapping and murder several years ago, and his father was linked in with the smuggling ring old Alba and Portsman were in with. 

Lance Amano lasted two days in protective before deciding that he was terrified of his fellow inmates, including his own father-- and that he wanted into gen pop. Two weeks after managing to make enemies of nearly everyone there, he slit his wrists with razorblades he'd snuck into isolation, prompting an inquiry into observations on inmates in isolation. His death was ruled as a suicide, though I remember rumours about someone slipping him the blades while he was in there running rampant around the prison. No one owned up to doing it, of course. 

"That's the one," Lily says grimly. "I read the files; it was like jumping on a website and link-hopping after awhile-- I got reading about Tobaye, and then the Borginian  _Calctza--_ their mafia-- and that crossed over with smuggling, and..." She throws he hands up, cigarette still in her mouth. "It's thrilling, I swear." She smiles sardonically. "I just hope that Miles Edgeworth doesn't land himself in here again-- he's going to have enemies all over the place." 

"Manfred von Karma managed to survive," Parke says.

"von Karma was backed up by Gant, who was in with just about every big name in the criminal underworld. Seems that Edgeworth doesn't have any of that. Plus there's the Phoenix Wright connection: the people Edgeworth didn't put away, Wright did."

I suck my breath in then, thinking about Lauryn. There have already been too many crossovers between our clients, never a direct move from one of us to the other.

 

"Let's not think about pieces that aren't on the board yet, anyway," Parke says. He crushes his cigarette against the wall behind him. "I start back next week, but I'm coming in today to draft a proposal that the IT guys take a look at their telephone guidelines," he continues.

"A lovely legacy from Moreau," I can't help but say with a wry smirk.

"Have they fixed that shorting out power issue yet?"

"Nope."

Parke sighs. "What the hell is Waverley actually _doing_ here?"

Lily shrugs and then her blank expression turns soft and serious. "You talking to Gavin as well?"

"I'll try to." Parke's trying to sound non-committal, but he doesn't. "If I do, I'll be calling on someone for backup-- I don't trust him at all."

We both nod and murmur to ourselves, and Parke walks into the prison, with that same determined and heavy step I'm used to. "I'm baaaaack," he calls over his shoulder in a mock-cheerful tone.

"Yeah," mutters Lily to me as we walk back in through the doors. "Welcome home, cowboy."

 

 

 

 

"I'm gonna kill that little cunt." The look on Engarde's face as he stares back at me is stony and serious. 

"Who are you referring to, Mr. Engarde?" He's only just gotten here and I'm scared that I only have a small window of time to make things right, or calm him down. He's not just het up and annoyed, he's furious-- it's that same rage and anger he expresses when he's being restrained or is thumping around the isolation cell, the rage that you know would actually hurt someone if he were able to get out. Except this time, it's here, in my office, with no visual stimuli or obvious stressor provoking it.

I assume he's referring to Wellington. Maybe he's referring to Gant, especially since he'd tried to organise Gant's death with Crescend earlier. But I let him speak, and am surprised to hear a new name.

"Machi Tobaye." 

There's a name I wasn't expecting to hear from him. 

"Why?"

"You didn't see him this morning." He fidgets as he talks, his eyes still looking straight at mine. I'm not sure if I'm looking at hurt or terror or a nasty combination of both. "He's trying to get in with that prosecutor Gavin's fucking."

I raise an eyebrow carefully. "Mr. Engarde-- we're here to talk about you. While I realise that since you and Gavin have parted ways--"

He looks down at his hands and stops fidgeting when I say that. I feel almost intrusive; this is hitting a nerve with him and while I'm meant to hit nerves, I feel awkward doing it in this instance. I can offer no reassurance or therapy for having come out of a relationship with Kristoph Gavin. 

"Do you want to talk about that?" I ask nervously.

He shrugs. "I guess it's better than talking about that miserable little fuckstick who'd just as soon as spit at you as he would make eye contact." His eyes narrow. "I hate that kid; he's dangerous. He's like an animal; can't you guys drug him or isolate him or--"

"Mr. Engarde," I warn again. "We're not here to talk about other inmates."

He shrugs. "I know that," he says. "But most of my problems are based around other people here right now."

"Then you need a mediator, not to be talking to me." 

He blinks, looking furious. "So you're just handballing me over to someone else, are you?" 

No. I'm not doing that. But there are limits. I sigh, and look at him and his scarred, damaged face and the glimmer of hurt in his eyes. I want to change the subject. 

"How's your new rooming situation?"

The anger turns to dry suspicion and incredulity. "You're shitting me, aren't you?" he asks, the anger brewing up again. "You want to know what the friendly reunion is like between me and the guy who was fucking me up the ass every time someone turned their back, who had me blowing screws for favours, and who was in with friends of that fucked up hitman I sent to deal with Corrida and who screwed up and got me blamed for it?"

"But  _didn't_  you send out the hitman to kill Corrida?" I say nothing about Gant's possible bluff or connections, storing away that information for later on. 

He crosses his arms. " _Yes_ ," he says. "But he assured me I wouldn't be tied to it." His voice is rising as he speaks, angry and waspish. "You know, so much of what Gant had over me was that he said he had _connections_ \-- never enough to actually let on that he knew  _Shelly_  himself, but enough to let on that he knew people who knew people. And when I fucked off from Gant, when Plan joined them-- when Gavin and I..." and he stops there, blinking, his voice slowed. He starts picking at a scratch on his arm and he looks out at me vacantly when I don't say anything. " _What_?"

"You seem to be very frantic today, Mr. Engarde."

"Yeah, well everything I say leads back to talking about him, doesn't it?" 

"I'm sorry." I study him carefully. "Do you want to talk about him?"

"Which him? DeKiller or Gavin?"

"Either one." I'm keeping my voice steady, and I'm curious as to who he'll choose to talk about. This could be revealing.

“You know, when Gavin and I first got shoved in that cell together, the first thing I did was tell him that I was going to kill him for what he did to Wellington, and the first thing he said was that he'd like to see me try." He smiles almost fondly. "The screws weren't doing proper obs on anyone, so not long after that I'm at him, he's at me, next thing, there's an arm around my neck and he's grabbing a sheet off the top bunk and telling me, very calmly, that he's going to kill me. And he was holding me against the bed, and I can feel his dick pressed against my back and I'm just thinking, "Whoa, dude, this guy is getting off on this.""

  
I'm trying to keep my mouth closed, am trying to disguise my horror, but it's difficult. I merely nod, distancing myself from the imagery, or trying to at least, hoping that this is just Engarde's way of trying to shock me and avoid talking about Shelly deKiller.

He continues. His voice has mellowed and softened, and there's a reminiscent smile on his lips as he's talking quite fondly about Gavin. His voice is an amused drawl. "I remember him saying, "You're enjoying this, aren't you, Matt?"" The smile broadens. "He loosened his grip on me then, I think he was shocked, dude, and there I am, hard as fucking  _diamonds_ , dude, and he just stops and looks at me, weirded out. Weirded out but  _pleased_." His expression hardens and the hair falls back over one side of his face again, obscuring the scarring over his eye. "It was...  _perfect_ , you know?" he asks. 

Like he's challenging me. "I suppose it would be for someone with your particular...  _likes_." Yes, perhaps I'm a bit uncomfortable with the flippant way he's talking about the event. "He could have killed or seriously injured you." 

"So?" he asks. "He didn't. He just pushed me onto the bottom bunk and told me to keep my mouth shut and the rest--" he chuckles-- "is history." The smile fades and he looks distant, his distraction shifting to the blood pooling around the sore on his arm. "Ain't that the fucking truth?" he sneers to himself.

I watch him carefully. "It sounds like you're missing more than just the sex," I suggest. He blinks again, and looks up at me. 

"Yeah," he says. "But you know what?" There's triumph in his voice as he says it-- "I found out afterwards, you know, I think the bastard actually gave a fuck about me."

Okay. This is interesting. This has shifted things, and there's now a pleading look on Engarde's face, as though he's trying to read my face or beg for an affirmative. 

"Did he tell  _you_  anything about me?" 

"I can't talk about other people's sessions in here, Mr. Engarde. What do you think?" 

Irritated, but unperturbed, he wears a determined expression. "I think the fact that he  _turned around_  last night when Gant was feeling me up says more than anything he said in the hospital."

"What do you mean by that?"

I already know. It explains the way Gavin was lying in his bed, facing the back wall instead of the window at the door. 

"He couldn't bring himself to watch," he says. "If it was someone else, he'd have either not cared, or been entertained." He pauses, and combs the fringe out of his face. "He doesn't normally turn away from things." 

I just nod, for the first time in a long time, not knowing what to say. But I wonder what the hell this has to do with Tobaye and Portsman and Engarde wanting them-- or one of them-- dead.

Thankfully, he changes the conversation.

"I think he assumed that what was happening with Gant was consensual," he says quietly. "And it was, I guess, because I wasn't fighting, but you learn here, dude, you don't and can't fight. Not when Waverley's running the unit and you're roomed up with his best friend." 

I realise my expression's changed because he shrugs, and flippantly elaborates. "Dude," he drawls. "This place is more corrupt than when White was paying off the DA's office. You think I'm too stupid not to know it? Or to think that mine was the only money that influenced anyone?" He shrugs.

He seems off-kilter. Too casual. Too relaxed and open and willing to talk about the horrors of imprisonment. There's an unsettling  _freedom_  to the way he speaks, as though he's got nothing to lose. It worries me, because it reminds me of Redd White in his last few days; a careless honesty because life is short and nothing matters any more. 

  
I lean in a bit closer, resting my elbows on my desk. Hopefully my expression conveys a look of sympathy. "Mr. Engarde," I ask softly. "In all the time we've been here, you've said very little about how you're actually  _feeling_  about any of this. You've just come out of hospital, you've had some... changes in your life-- and you're just telling me about other people. Where's Matt Engarde in all of this?" 

He looks away from me again. "I'm just cruisin', doc," he tells me. "All I can do is wait for whatever's coming." It's too casual for him, too sane, too happy to be throwing it all to chance. "Look," he says in an undertone, "I'm not gonna pretend my days here aren't numbered, and I always knew there'd be some risk when someone got in contact with Shelly, but since those drugs showed up, I knew I was a dead man." 

I can't believe I'm hearing this. 

"Why do you say that?" 

He sighs. "Look, doc," he says. "I'm gonna see that lawyer this afternoon, the one _he_ was banging-- I'm gonna defend my ass in court because there's no way I had that shit in to kill Plan. But if I don't get there, I guess I don't get there."

"What makes you believe that you're a dead man, as you say?" 

He snorts, and waves a hand theatrically. "You know that card you were looking at this morning?" I nod.

"The pink one? With the shell on it?" He's speaking much faster now. "Only one person would know what the hell that card actually means, and that was me. That's who it was for, and somehow Gant's got it in our cell and it's sitting there waiting for me."

"What does the card mean?" 

"Sorry, doc-- I'm not telling you any more secrets," he says. "We're not meant to talk about other people in here, are we?" He winks at me, smiling slightly, possibly aware of how aggravating he's being. "I'm just fucked if I'm letting Kristoph Gavin or Damon Gant or any of the others think that they've gotten to me. That's all."

He stands up as I mentally start compiling notes on him. Observations. Close ones. He's not to leave anyone's sight. He's not to be situated anywhere near Tobaye or Gavin. 

I breath out with a sigh of relief as he leaves the office with Lily. Thankfully, Parke is on his way back, at least. I'll go straight to him and not Waverley. 

I'm worried. There is an entire network of information, of secrets and deceptions and plots which I'm only privy to the surface of. And I have no idea how to prevent the avalanche I'm expecting.

 

 

 

"I'd like to welcome back out  _good friend_ , Mil Parke." Waverley paces anxiously across the staff room. "How'ya doin' buddy-- almost forgot who you were there for a moment."

I don't hear what Lily mutters under her breath but I can detect from the tone that it's sarcastic, and that she's had to restrain herself to keep it at an inaudible tone.

"Even though he's the manager-- and returning as the manager-- well, I've been the one running this place for the last few weeks-- so I suppose I should be conducting the meeting."

 _I suppose_. No. He's holding onto the last small vestiges of power he still has, and his smile is perfectly submissive; a gesture of friendship fronting up passive-aggressive fear that he's been overtaken. The people observer in me wants to point out how pathetic he looks. But I keep my mouth shut and sip my coffee.

I'm watching, too, the way everyone else's necks are craned and their eyes are on Parke, curious and hopeful, questioning with their eyes what's gone wrong. Parke doesn't talk about his personal life, none of us do. The workplace is one where we need to back one another up, and the less we know about one another, I suppose, the more we're likely to like them and care about them enough to step in if they need our help. There's another way around that, fear, I guess, but relying on fear for support is a gamble. It certainly hasn't worked for Waverley.

Parke, looking as though he should be saying something, offers a casual wave and an awkward smile. "I'll see you next week," he says, his voice revealing nothing. Typical Parke; stoic and self-assured and offering nothing irrelevant. 

"So," Waverley starts. "We have Engarde back on observations again, because to  _some_  people he's a suicide risk." He's got a bunch of papers in his hands, which he throws down dismissively onto the table we're sitting at, the corners narrowly missing my coffee. "Since when is Engarde  _not_  a suicide risk?" he growls.

"He was ICC with Gant," Lily says almost robotically. "This seems to suggest a change in his demeanor."

"Maybe Gant's just put him back in his place," Waverley snaps. "We've got bigger problems out there than Slashboy wanting to kill himself-- anyone taken a look at Machi Tobaye lately?"

"Tobaye?" someone asks.

Waverley glares straight through me. "The kid psychiatry couldn't touch," he sneers. "That one's gonna go off like an egg in a microwave oven; he's sneaky and he's determined. He's recognised the key players here and he wants in with the big names; I've seen him trying to win Gant's favour now that Tigre's sure to leave, and he's been nosying around Sporticus as well. And since we've all seen him in action, I'm saying _he_  belongs on obs."

"What's your concern about the new kid?" Everyone looks when Parke speaks up. "We've seen this happen before; a new, flighty and aggressive inmate comes in, has it out with one of the big names, then--"

"You don't know this little fuck," Waverley snaps. "He smashed Julian Callander when he first came in, and now he's cosying up to the head honchos--"

"He's scared," Parke says. "Pathologising him isn't going to alleviate his fears."

I can see Waverley growing angrier as he paces, and the next comment out of his mouth suggests he's been pushed to a place seldom seen before. "You been hanging out with  _him_ , have you?" he growls, a glare in my direction. " _Pathologising_  the little fucker? I'm just stating how it is. Tobaye's that spark that could get this place into riot territory."

 

There's a murmur and a gasp amongst everyone. And I'm not sure if this is Waverley trying to employ scare tactics, or if there could be some truth in the statement. We haven't had a riot in years. Yet we haven't had someone as young and volatile and concentrated in his anger as Tobaye is. 

No one says anything, and Waverley starts up again. "Another cause for concern is Callander, who is currently in isolation after we found contraband on him."

Again, everyone looks confused. Waverley reaches into his pocket. "We found  _these_  on him during a routine search." He pulls out a few sharpened pieces of what look like plastic from a drinking cup. "These," he says, tossing the pieces of white plastic on the table on top of the notes, "are from another unit. Which means one of our new boys has brought them in." 

Parke glances at me, then, his face horrified. He mouths something to me which might be  _Routine admission search?_  and then looks back at Waverley. 

"Why would Callander have weapons on him?" Hamm sounds incredulous. "He doesn't have any major enemies."

"He's a diddler and looks like a victim after the Tobaye incident," Waverley says. "He's scared shitless and wants to defend himself."

"He belongs in protective." It's Venn who says it and she doesn't look impressed. "He's rapidly deteriorating in here and he can't keep up with the unit-- he's vulnerable and-- we got one of their's, why can't they have one of ours?" 

Waverley shrugs. "He's got a life sentence, so we're stuck with him," he says. "My  _point_  is, we need to be searching and keeping an eye out for trouble-- anything that looks out of place--"

"What's the pink card in Gant and Engarde's room?" I ask. Everyone looks at me, and Lily smiles.

"I'm not talking about a  _playing card_." Waverley's voice is scornful. "Haven't seen anyone make a shiv out of one of them."

"So where's the rest of the deck then?" Lily speaks up. Like me, she's been bothered by the presence of the card-- there's a saccharine lightness about it which seems out of place here; even without Engarde touching upon its significance, such  _sweetness_  is oddly out of place here. Her voice is careful and confused. "I saw you return that card to Gant; I'm wondering where he's hiding the rest of them."

  
"Right," he says dismissively, his eyes moving away from Lily-- Gant and Engarde get searched and their room gets gutted." He shrugs, and then smiles nastily at Lily. "Will that alleviate your fears? Are you worried he's going to commit assault via  _paper cuts_?"

Lily blinks and, staring him in the eye, offers him a too-polite  _thankyou_.

"Moving along then-- we've got the pool getting done, it's coming along great-- an internal audit's been arranged and we're nearly done there, too--" All of this is posturing to show Parke that he's got the situation under control, that everything is good, all is fine.

"Wonderful to hear." I wonder if Waverley can detect Parke's sarcasm.

"And Denham's back tomorrow-- he won't be on the floor, but I've got it on good authority that he's back with us."

"Crescend'll be pleased," someone offers vaguely. No one says anything about Field. 

"Right--" Waverley's back to puffing his chest out. "Any problems, anyone?" 

No one says anything. I think they're aware that if they did, Waverley would do what he did to Lily, and deflect the questioning and render it insignificant.

"We've got Engarde in his legal visit right now: Towne's watching from outside--once he's back on the floor, Lily, you're relieving him from obs--" He speaks over the commotion of chairs being moved and people shifting towards Parke.

But Parke makes a stealthy exit and grabs me by the elbow as we're leaving.

"Is it just me--" he asks in an undertone-- "Or has Waverley done absolutely sweet FA since I left this place?"

 

 

I don't expect Lauryn to call work. Ever. She has on occasion, granted, but looking at the screen on my telephone-- Caller ID is now functional-- I do a double-take. Why would she ring  _now_?

I'm not sure what to expect when I pick up the phone. Rage? An apology? It feels like an age since I've last spoken to her and I'm curious if not anything else. I know what I  _don't_  want from her and that's a request to solve some other cross-over of a puzzle linking our clients. 

I'm strangely pleased that she's calling, though. Her voice is normal, compared to the world of disastrous I've been living in lately. 

"Lauryn?"

She sounds sheepish. "Hi," she says quietly. "I know it's been awhile but..."

"I've missed you," I tell her. 

"You too," she says. "I didn't know if you didn't want to ring or were too busy-- I've put off calling you--"

"Likewise." When she puts it like that and I find myself agreeing, I realise that I have. I've done exactly what I did to Liz and Anna, and the realisation is startling. "I'm sorry." 

"Look, I am too-- I want to catch up-- but--"

"You were ringing about some workplace issue?" I ask with a smile. I can't help but smile. Because the alternative is to start tearing my hair out.

"Well--  _yeah_." Her voice is lowered. "I've just spent the last half hour on the phone with a particular client of mine and he's meant to be visiting your workplace with a couple of detectives for some interviews--"

"The lawyer?" I ask. "I think he's already been and gone."

"The lawyer's  _friend_ ," she says warily. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do about it, but the one thing my lawyers have always said is that the law is supposed to be  _impartial_." 

I have a sense of dread growing in my stomach and I am fairly sure that I don't want to hear the end of her statement. But like the fool that I am, I nod and ask.

"And you think someone's impartiality is being compromised?" 

" _Yes_." She hisses down the line, and I stop her before she can say anything else. I think of the telephone protocols here, of Gavin circumventing them, of the fact that theoretically, anyone's calls could be overheard here. I don't want to get her into trouble.

"We can't talk here," I tell her. "How about I drop by yours after work, we do dinner somewhere, catch up on old times and untangle this mess-- I don't want to hear any more at the moment."

She sucks in her breath. "This is all happening right now," she says. But she sounds resigned. And maybe dinner and a night out with me, for some reason, sounds like an appealing idea.

"Okay."

"Thankyou-- we can talk tonight-- I don't trust anyone right now around here, and I don't want you embroiled in whatever mess is going on."

"Do you even know what I'm talking about?" she asks. She sounds frustrated; angry, but angry with the circumstances rather than me.

"No," I tell her. "But you can explain in a few hours."

She thanks me and hangs up. If things have just gotten worse, I'm still stupidly pleased about it.

 

 

 

* * *

 

  
Daryan Crescend is escorted into my office, after a warning about his anger. 

He would ordinarily have been placed in isolation, but he had the fortune to be found by Hamm, who was in a good mood, and he was smart enough to stop short of damaging anything. And he had the people skills to ask after Denham. Perhaps Hamm took mercy on him because he was pleased to have his case worker back, and agreed to see me, reeling off some story about his meds needing adjusting to Hamm. 

Hamm's a nice guy. Hamm's been here longer than time, and it's always astounded me that Hamm's never tried to go in for managerial positions, but something's lacking with Hamm. Perhaps it's confidence; he's aware of the fact that managerial roles require more literacy skills than he possesses, and he's had his own ways of covering them up when need be. But at some point, his confidence has to be affected by it. 

Hamm's also oddly laid-back and decent in a career that rewards stoicism and badassery, and which covers the asses of the bullying. If you're in legal trouble, you hope that you're going to get Phoenix Wright as your lawyer, Winston Payne as the prosecution, and if all that fails you, you want Hamm as your case worker when you're doing time.

Hamm is  _fair_ , and unlike others who've seen too much and who've hardened themselves to the horror, there's a human streak of decency in him. He's not incapable of defending himself, but he won't try to attack when restraining, and he won't use restraint as a first option. And he either doesn't know how to-- or refuses to-- use psychological warfare against a threat. I've never figured out if it's because he doesn't have the confidence to, doesn't understand how to, or just wants to rest easy at the end of a long day at work.

Consequently, Hamm has a reputation for being soft, and the officer you hope catches you in the act when you're doing something wrong. Hamm will hear you out, and evidently he's done that with Crescend.

 

  
Ordinarily, I'm grateful for Hamm's humanity; this afternoon I'm busy and stressed, and the last thing I need is another detour from the stack of reports I need to write up. My mind is already stuffed with Parke's return, Lauryn's call, Matt Engarde's jilted weird calm and potential suicide risk, Gant and the pink card, and Waverley's power trip, not to mention the secondary dramas around the prison. And Furio Tigre's report, half-finished and open on the computer when my door opens. 

"Mr. Crescend," I say, not hiding the sigh in my voice. "What brings you here today?" 

"He was taking out his rage on the music room door," Hamm tells me. Crescend sits down and peers out at me, darkly, from under a thatch of angry-looking hair which hasn't seen the right end of a hair brush in what seems like awhile. 

"Do you want to tell me what happened?" 

"I'd have taken him to Waverley, but he said he wanted to talk to you instead," Hamm tells me with a shrug.

"Thankyou"--  _I guess_ \-- "I'll take it from here." 

Hamm closes the door and Crescend keeps watching me until he's certain Hamm's walked away.

"Why the fuck does that little prick get to use the music room when no one else does?" he snarls. "It's not fucking  _fair_."

"Who are you talking about?" I ask him calmly. I already know: I'd fired off an email to management and the cultural worker suggesting that Tobaye be allowed access to a piano. I didn't expect my request to be approved or followed up this quickly and had hoped the off-limits nature of the music room would have been forgotten by then.

"That cocksucker Tobaye," he says. "Scary little cunt, that one is-- "You shoulda seen what he did to Callander the other day."

I nod. 

"I understand that the two of you have some previous issues in relation to your criminal matters," I try to say as sensitively as possible.

"Yeah-- the little fucker lagged me in. Him and Gavin's new toyboy fucked me up-- but we mediated-- this isn't about that. This is about him getting special treatment because he's a privileged little fucker." He's still scowling at me. "What do I have to do? Threaten some staff, try to kill some cunts and scare the living shit outta everyone so  _I_  get to express myself?" 

I sigh, not knowing what to say.

"Did you speak with anyone else about this?" I ask.

"Not yet. But I need you, doc, to tell 'em that I have mental illness which can get cured with  _music_. Preferably with some decent sound equipment and a Gibson-- uh, maybe an EDS twelve-seventy-five? I've always wanted to try one of those double-necked--"

His voice is rising with his anger. And he knows as well as I do that there's no way the department-- or the prison-- is going to pay for a top-quality guitar for him.

"Mr.  _Crescend_." 

" _What_?" he snaps back at me. "I'm fuckin'  _pissed_." 

"I understand that, but we need to work with what we've got here--"

"It wasn't even  _me_  who trashed the music room and went apeshit. It was Engarde. Hell, I was minding my own business, and I get fucked over, all so that little prick gets to walk in here and do what he damn well feels like." 

"I understand that you're angry--"

"Damn right I am. And he fucking  _taunts_  me about shit, too." He does a poor impersonation of Machi's accent. " _He scared of airplane_ , he tells the new kiddies on the unit. So I've now got fucken Gold and that roommate of his, the stalker, making plane noises around me and doin' my fucken head in."

I can see his fists, clenched tightly as he speaks. "And then there's the threats about who he knows: you know why he didn't go to the drugs unit or the petty crims or the organised crime units?--"

"Mr. Cre--"

"Because the little fucker's connected like whoa. He was running drugs in and out of juvie for the mafia, he's hooked up with the Greens, and he knows  _Calctza_ \-- that's the Borginian mob-- he told me in the mediation that he could have me iced if he just said the word."

"I've never received any report of that--"

"Little fucker said it in  _Borginian_ ," he sneers.

"Do you speak Borginian yourself, Mr. Crescend?"

"I know enough when it's accompanied with a hand gesture the staff manage not to see in our happy funtimes mediation," he says. "That prick's got my number."

He's silent and seething. And scared, from the looks of it; his breath is restless and his wiry frame rises and falls with each intake of air. 

"Have you considered that he may very well be bluffing?" I ask him. "That he might just be trying to get you off the floor by hoping that you react before he does?" 

"Yeah," he mumbles, though from the way he says it, it seems unlikely. "I've got a parole hearing coming up soon-- I'd really prefer not to fuck this up, you know?" 

"I do," I tell him with a nod. "And I'd prefer for your sake that you don't cause Tobaye any undue grief which may influence any decisions made in that parole hearing."

He nods. "I'm not that stupid," he says. "But look, doc, people hear things, right?" He flips a waft of hair away from his face, his still angular features clearly visible. Of everyone here, he's the one who's lasted the longest and still resembles his former glory days. Besides Gant, I suppose, that is. 

"People hear things?" I ask.

"I'm only saying this coz I don't want to fuck up anything for my parole, but I gotta say, there's plenty of other people who want him taken down a notch, too. For me, I'm just sick of the threats and the music room bullshit."

I nod. "So what do you propose we do about it?" 

"I want in on the music program," he says. "That's all. And I think these meds are starting to screw with me; you need to up the dose or something coz things have been getting at me more than they should lately." And then there's a look of utmost helplessness from him. "And I really,  _really_  don't want to lose my shit and fuck up." 

"I'll see what I can do," I offer him. I look down at his notes, write a script and an approval form for his medication to be increased, and radio up for Hamm to collect him.

He gives me a vaguely hopeful smile as he leaves the office, and a "Thanks, doc," uttered quietly and humbly as he leaves. I nod; I don't want to see him fuck up, as he put it, because he seems to be one of the few wanting to control himself. 

Before I return to Tigre's report, I run through his case file, trying to find some sort of cause for him to need the music room. I turn up a big nothing, and make a note to discuss it with Denham to tomorrow.

It's been a busy afternoon, and it feels like everything's ended on a downer. I need to step out of my office. Badly.

 

As I do, I can hear a light, beautiful tinkling from down the hallway. I already know what I'm going to be seeing as I approach the door, but the sheer perfection and beauty of the music transfixes me. In those moments of standing there, watching Venn, who has the easiest part of the shift, it seems, I cannot help but smile in awe. Venn looks close to blissful and distracted; she's been offered the chance to let her guard down and relax for this part of her day. Machi Tobaye isn't a threat to security even though he's being observed and not left alone with staff; his attention and his hands are too busy eliciting a beautiful, perfect song from the keys in front of him.

It's almost laughable: in a drab prison uniform, and with muscular arms threatening to strain the fabric, his hands are still delicate and sensitive, his memory of the piece he's playing still intact. I do not recognise the piece of music; I almost wish that Gavin or Behr, the other two I know to be classical fans-- could be here and watching what I am, because there's wonder in his talent and it makes me want to listen to whatever it is he's playing again. 

The music stops abruptly, and I hear a muttered curse in what must be Borginian, and then he repeats what he was playing. It's only after he's back into the piece that I realise that he's made a mistake, and with his need for precision, he cannot continue having made a mistake. Even though he has an audience of one, a prison officer who probably has no true understanding of what she's listening to. It breaks my heart that he's stuck in here, I realise. 

But I'm glad, even if others aren't, that he has access to the music room. This could be what keeps him sane. Sane- _ish_.

 

 

 

With Tigre's report complete, and with the prospect of a dinner date ahead of me, I leave work at the end of the afternoon. I'm grateful to be heading out. 

The floor is calm as I'm leaving. Perhaps Waverley's room changes aren't such a bad idea-- while there seems to be a stony silence between Engarde and Wellington in the TV area-- Gant is sitting between them, and curiously enough, Crescend is there with them, and he appears amicable and calmer. Behr sits close by, a part of the group but not really, and Tigre sits on the edge of the row of the seats, still a part of the group but possibly realising that he won't be for much longer. It's almost sobering. I silently hope that Tigre's plea for transfer goes through, and that he gets his chance at reconnecting with his daughter. Lingering towards the door, ever the outsider, is Callander, with his bruised face and a blank, pathetic expression. I almost feel sorry for him; he's seeking protection amongst these men, protection he only gets from placement, not loyalty.

Gavin, Portsman and Tobaye are outside, not paying much attention to the game of chess being played by Tobaye and Portsman. They're in discussion about something, and the voyeur in me cannot help but listen in. Something about the undertones seems suspicious until I realise that they're discussing classical music. Gavin looks patient, strangely enough, as he moves a piece on the board-- either Tobaye has always known how to play chess, a universal game with no need for shared language-- or he's honed his skills in juvenile detention. 

Perhaps everything is going to work out okay, I think, feeling stupid at my naivete. 

Rolla and the new kid, Hackins, give me a wave by the door as I head out. My day has ended on a calm note. 

 

I notice something as I walk around the corner leading into the cell block; there are investigators on the unit, segregated from the population by an aptly closed door which I was perhaps not meant to open but had not been advised about.  _Typical Waverley_ , I think to myself as I walk through, noticing the three people moving along in conversation: the investigators and the prosecutor.

Everything falls into place about Lauryn's phone call in that moment. One of the three is Klavier Gavin. He doesn't see me initially, and I can only see the back of him, the walking stick still in his hand and pressed into the floor.

It's the woman's voice that draws my attention. "Damon  _Gant_ ," she breathes out in disbelief.

"Ja," Klavier says. He sounds bored. "His room mate." 

So they're investigating Engarde. It all makes sense.

"I-- I've met him," she continues.

There's an awkward silence between them; I'm not sure why the young woman in the lab coat would have known Damon Gant, a man old enough to be her grandfather-- but the silence is broken with a gasp from the other detective, the burly, silvering-haired man standing next to them.

"You found something?" the woman asks. I've seen these people before, and I'm trying to remember names. 

Klavier turns around at that moment. "Guten tag," he says icily, eyeing me cautiously. "We are conducting an investigation here."

"I-- I can see that." 

"Hello--" The young woman extends her hand to me. "I don't remember your name, but--"

"I'm doctor--" I shake her hand, but before I can properly introduce myself, attention's turned back to the other detective. "I know what that is," he says, looking in the same direction I was earlier this morning. "That-- card. That's been in another investigation involving Matt Engarde. It belongs to--" He looks horrified and puzzled for a moment and then it dawns on him as he starts unravelling the memory-- "It was about ten years ago-- Phoenix Wright, before he got disbarred and before he was reinstated as a lawyer and before--"

Klavier's lips purse at the memory, and he scowls at me. "You're the one dealing with my beloved  _brother_ , aren't you?" he asks snakily. "Were you the one who suggested he seek damages against me?"

"N--"

Why do I feel put on the spot? This has nothing to do with me.

"This was  _supposed_  to be a secure investigation free of tampering from outside parties," he says. "Not individuals who might have an outside interest in the accused--"

"I can assure you--"

Klavier's eyes narrow and he glares at me with pure, unadulterated hatred. " _Auf Wiedersen_ ," he snaps at me. He shoots a glare at the male detective.

I scurry off, terrified by the look on Klavier's face and at the sheer disgust in his voice. He's not the man who arrived here months ago to attempt resolution with his brother; there's a furious determination in his voice and his eyes; he's hardened. Even the German doesn't sound playful coming from him any more.

I suspect I'll find out what's happening when I speak to Lauryn. 

Glancing back at them as I move further down the hallway, my sense of calm has fulled dissipated, I realise. Something ominous has replaced it, and I find myself worried for Engarde. With rage like that backing up an investigation, I cannot help but think that Klavier will want a maximum sentence handed down.

Not that it will have any impact upon Engarde's circumstances, I think, as I drive along in the evening light, trying to remind myself that I'm seeing Lauryn; Engarde received a reduced penalty of life after capital punishment was abolished; there's not a great deal Klavier and his team can  _do_  to Engarde now. I wonder if he knows who Engarde is-- who he  _was_ \-- in Gavin's life. Is this some hatred of corruption and crime, or something else-- revenge motivated at hitting Kristoph where it hurts-- driving him? It doesn't matter, I tell myself again. 

I pull up outside Lauryn's office and am shocked by the lack of lights on outside. It's evening, and usually she keeps her lights on, suggesting that she's still  _around_  even if the doors are closed. But I smile when I see her waiting by the steps-- she looks good-- she's had a hair cut, and she's wearing the kind of suit I'd associate with TV appearances rather than just another day in the office.

I don't say anything when she hugs me hello. For that brief moment, I'm in her arms, I can smell her makeup, her perfume, I can feel her warmth and it's comforting and informal, and I realise that whatever anger was between us has been healed by time. 

She pulls away from me, much too early, I think. "Thankyou for this," she says. "We need to talk-- I just didn't think you wanted to--"

"It's all right," I tell her quietly. "There are a few things in the world that both of us seem to understand and which few other people do."

"This one's a bit different," she says as we walk back to my car. "You'd think with all the lawyers I see, I'd have more of an idea what to do right now, but--"

  
"I know a lawyer, too," I say with a shrug. "And there's a chance I could be adding another one to my list of clientele." 

She doesn't push me, and waits until we're in my car before saying anything. 

"Did we do anything in college about what to do if an investigation is compromised?" she asks quickly.

My mind flashes back to Klavier and that stony look of hatred I received as I was leaving. "Not that I recall." I can remember laws about privacy and about notifying the authorities if criminal activity was confessed to. I can't remember anything about corruption or impartiality.

She nods. "Me neither. But--" And that's when she stops. "That was what made me think of you." She sucks her breath in and looks at me from her seat in the car as she adjusts her seatbelt. "I don't understand your clients," she says. "I don't particularly  _like_  the ones I know about, but... I think one of them is going to be taken for a ride the courts might jump on board for."

We pull out of her driveway and head down the road.

"Thai again?" I ask.

She nods. "That sounds great." 

I wonder, as the soft radio news murmurs away to itself, if I'm giving her the option of turning back and not actually revealing anything to me; I'd be happy enough with her company without any confessions or discussions of either of our clients. Just a nice dinner, a catch up, a laugh and lighthearted chat about our crazy clients-- that's all I really want with her. And the way she seems so hesitant makes me wonder if that's all she wants from me.

"Remember that green chicken curry we had there...  _ages_  ago?" she asks. "I wonder if they still do that?" She's talking quickly. Perhaps she's hesitant to tell me what's going on, too.

"Yeah." I'm concentrating on the road ahead as best as I can. Maybe not making eye contact with her will keep the conversation where it is and we can conveniently not talk about our clients.

"We haven't been to that borscht place, either," I suggest randomly. "Remember the whacky decor?" I laugh out a little too loud. I'm trying too hard.

And Lauryn groans. "I suppose I should just cut to the chase, shouldn't I?" she asks. We're stopped at a red light and it seems horribly dramatic. Well, it would if an old eighties easy listening track-- Devo's _Whip It_ \-- wasn't playing softly in the background. It's like a bug in my ear, and I can hear it over the seriousness and the purr of the engine. I snap the radio off and look at Lauryn.

"I know Apollo Justice is representing one of your clients," she says slowly. "And I suspect you know that too." 

I nod. "And in a few days, the whole country-- or anyone watching Courthouse 24/7 will be aware of that, too."

"Right," she says. "Any idea who the prosecutor is?" 

"You told me-- and I saw him-- it's Klavier Gavin, isn't it?" 

She nods just as the light changes and we head towards the city lights and the still-open restaurants and cafes.

  
"I saw you around here a few weeks ago," she says off-handedly. "I didn't know you were seeing someone."

And that's the comment that shocks and throws me off-guard. " _What_?" 

There's an iciness in Lauryn's voice. "She was short," she says coolly, "She looked a few years older than us; I didn't see her up close, I was heading out to a book launch for Sophie's new release." _Sophie's World_  is the talkshow she regularly appears on as their resident psych expert.

I nod dumbly, not knowing what to say. 

I suppose honesty is the best policy.

"I was dropping off a workmate," I tell her-- there is  _nothing_  going on between us. That's... that's Lily. Her car had broken down and we needed to talk shop anyway--"

I don't know how much she believes, and there's an awkward silence following on from that. 

"I wasn't spying on you or anything," she says. "I just noticed you. And if you were seeing someone-- I thought-- good luck to you." She chuckles nervously to herself. "I was asked out last week by a new cameraman on the morning show-- I--"

"Go for it," I say quietly. It's weird; now I'd rather be talking shop and elaborate messes involving our clients and us breaching an awful lot of confidentiality-- than I would be talking about this. "It's not like we're... not best friends."

"We weren't for awhile," she says.

"I'm sorry." 

"Me too." 

There's more silence between us, which I break, not by flicking the radio back on and hoping for some more appropriate background music, but with a question.

"So," I ask gingerly. I feel like I'm edging myself slowly into a too-hot bath. "You're concerned about a client?"

She perks up. We're back to normal. Sort of. "Yeah," she says. "You know what happened to Klavier--"

"And what he  _did_ \--"

"Yes," she says. "And Apollo Justice has told me a few things--"

I nod. 

"I shouldn't be... but I'm worried about Matt Engarde," she says finally.

I laugh. "You're not alone there."

"I've  _tried_  talking to Klavier about it-- I'm worried about him, too, that he could be compromising what's left of his career-- but..." she stops there.

"I saw Klavier this evening," I tell her. "He seemed...  _cold_." 

"Klavier's suspicious of anyone who seems to get along with his brother," she tells me quietly. "He's worried that anyone Kristoph comes in contact with gets manipulated into seeing the world through his warped worldview." She sighs. "I trust your professional integrity better than that." There's something pleading in her voice, like she wants to, anyway. It makes me shudder involuntarily.

"Klavier's also been granted a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity: to legally hit his brother where it hurts."

"How can he do that?" I'm confused once again. "Couldn't he just have charged him for the offences which--"

"He doesn't want to," she says. "He's worried that would only feed into some sick desire for contact that Kristoph has. He's worried Kristoph's only going to hurt him even more, and publicly. He said something about statute of limitations, too-- but I don't know. I don't think he  _wants_  to go there-- I'm not pushing for him to do so. Right now, I'm more concerned about what he's thinking of doing in other areas."

"If he thinks he's going to hurt Gav-- Kristoph-- by finding Matt Engarde guilty, he's not," I say with a shrug. "It's not like he can do anything to Engarde that's worse than what Engarde's already been sentenced to."

There's a weird sense in the car that something is about to get a whole lot worse. Maybe it's the silence. Maybe it's the apprehensive look on Lauryn's face.

  
"I've always been undecided about capital punishment," she says quietly. "When the laws came in outlawing it here, I didn't really feel one way or another about it-- I thought of you and what you did-- I wondered if you'd be out of work." She chuckles softly. "And I know all the arguments against it-- what if an innocent person is killed by the state, what about the disparity between those who could afford good lawyers and those who couldn't-- but what about people like Julian Callander or, well, Kristoph Gav--" She stops herself, returning to the subject. "I was hardly on the Save Matt Engarde messageboards, and I wouldn't say that I've joined up now--"

"But Engarde is serving a reduced sentence..."

We've stopped in the car park behind the Thai restaurant. To an outsider, we could be two sexually frustrated, near-middle-aged people about to attempt a make-out session to relieve work-related tension. But we're not. 

"Do you think that he did what he's been accused of?" she asks seriously.

"Do you know--?"

" _Yes_ ," she says in a hiss. "Drugs turned up on the unit, sent via the mail from interstate, and a man died when he and Matt Engarde decided to use and sell the drugs on the unit." 

"That's sort of--" I don't bother correcting her. She shouldn't know this much. I shouldn't be talking about this much. "Inter _state_?"

"Apparently they did an audit of the mail which came through; everything was accounted for on the checklist, and locations have been verified. The prosecution received that information from the prison."

"So?" I ask. 

"The package containing the drugs may have come in via courier from interstate--"

"I suppose that makes it harder to trace--"

"It also might mean grounds for getting Engarde convicted of murder interstate," she says darkly.

Suddenly, it dawns upon me. 

"Like in... Arizona or Texas?" 

Legislation has changed in the past twenty years, but several states still have legal capital punishment. And when you work in a prison where it's been abolished, it's easier to forget about them and worry about your own legislation.

She nods. "That's what they're aiming for." 

"So if--" I don't feel like eating anything right now. All I can think of is Engarde's insistence that he had nothing to do with the drugs beyond using them, and no desire to harm his old friend Timothy Plan. But all I can do is breath out, one uttered curse. " _Shit_." 

"That was what I meant by  _It's happening now_ ," she says. "I just hope Justice knows what he's doing." 

I cannot help but think about Engarde's casual honesty, his suicidal tendencies blunted by his knowledge that he was going to die. Now I think I've figured it out. And there's a bitterness and an unfairness to it; it might be too late, but I believe that he had nothing to do with the drugs on the unit. I don't know enough about legal proceedings to know how well that argument-- that the crime was committed interstate-- would hold, but with potentially both the defense and the prosecution levelled against Engarde, I can't help but think that his chances look slim. 

"I'm sure he does," I say darkly.

It seems redundant to point out that Gavin abandoned Engarde after the drugs debacle, anyway, and that he seems to be getting on with his life perfectly well without his presence. 

I stare out into the darkness outside the car, watching another couple make their way into the restaurant. For the first time I can recall, I feel bitter watching them, wondering why they get to have normal lives where they don't have to think about these things, where if they're attending therapy sessions, someone else gets to help them solve their problems. 

There's no solving this, I think.

"Let's get something to eat," Lauryn says after what feels like an eternity.


	29. TV Stars

Engarde is taken away early in the morning.

I didn't mean to get in that early; traffic was kind to me, and it was as much a shock to me as it was, apparently, to him. In the early pre-caffeinated start-up of the day, I cross the floor-- the unit's still on lockdown-- and glimpse through the observation windows at the inmates. I can see Wellington, looking as though he's woken specifically for the occasion, standing at the door, craning his neck, a smug grin on his face. It's the direction and the intent in his gaze which causes me to turn my head, and that's when I see Waverley and Denham escorting Engarde across the unit. He's not saying anything, and he's walking stoically, fringe dangled over the worst of the scarring on his face, trying to hold his head high. He sees me and says nothing, but I see a flash of sheer, unmitigated terror in his eyes as he's lead past me. His hands are linked behind him with cuffs-- there's been talk of bringing them back unit the unit for moving inmates  _like_  Engarde-- the volatile, the unstable, the violent. But they're usually only used in a handful of cases: in the days of death row, they sent chills through people's blood because they meant someone was taking the final corridor walk of their life. In sometimes less dramatic circumstances, they're used for early morning court pickups; being in a unit where most of the inmates are serving long sentences means there rarely  _are_  court pickups, early morning or otherwise-- and they're used when moving inmates from a situation when handcuffs are practical and it's feared that not using them will be a safety risk.

Gant is still asleep, I notice. Wellington's waving almost flirtatiously from his window. 

Engarde walks cooperatively but slowly, as though he knows his time is up.

I see Behr realise what's happening as Engarde is lead past his cell; Behr's already awake and he looks up with slight interest and acknowledgement, keeping an eye on the happenings of the prison but little more.

The real dark horse is Gavin, though. He's standing at a distance from the door, his hair a fluffy, uncharacteristically comical mess. His face is expressionless; he doesn't look like he slept well the previous night. But he doesn't look happy-- or sad, or hurt, or regretful-- or anything. 

When Engarde walks past, he remains perfectly still, his expression not changing. 

Engarde doesn't even look at him. 

It's the broken, conforming walk, it's the handcuffs and the fact that it's so early and he moves like he does when he's out of it; not drugged, but depressed. There's the soft  _pat-pat-pat_  of his slip-on shoes on the floor, and a murmur from Waverley, and I feel strangely compelled to remember his movement, every subtlety of it and each frame, because I honestly believe, with what Lily told me last night, that this is the last time I will ever see Matt Engarde walking anywhere.

 

  
Coffee will get me through the day. 

I shouldn't be bothered by this, I think, as my hand trembles while I'm filling the mug; I've counselled men in preparation for their trip to the death chamber. I've seen prisoners die here before; misadventure, injury, disease, old age-- death  _happens_. I drop the mug, startled and swearing at the shock of boiling water on my skin; an instant flash later and I'm running it under the cold water tap in the sink. Against all wishes, and against my professional nature, in a strange sort of way, I actually came to like Engarde. 

The door opens and Waverley and Denham walk in. 

"Figured you should do the honors," Waverley says jovially, as though Denham's just cut himself a piece of birthday cake. "After the little fucker made you take all that time off work."

Denham doesn't say anything. He looks at me, standing in front of the sink, and then at the dirty cups underneath my hand. Ignoring Waverley, he reaches down for one-- "Excuse me."

I step back, shocked; Denham doesn't usually behave so abruptly. And just when I think he's avoiding conversation with Waverley, he ignores me completely and turns back to him. "It's gonna be weird without him around here," he says. "I was getting used to his brand of crazy and was even thinking about working some shifts down at the hospital."

Waverley snorts, reaching into his pocket to fish out a few coins in order to feed the vending machine at the far end of the staffroom. "Don't worry," he says, and there's glee in his voice, scarcely hidden, "We get to watch Gavin crack up now, don't we?" Finding just enough shrapnel for a Man bar ("Man-packed full of  _awesome_ " the ad goes) he inserts it, waits for his prize and then turns back to Denham. "Oh, the glory that today shall bring."

Denham doesn't say anything and rinses out a stained coffee mug. I wait until he's done and make myself a second cup of coffee, my hands steady enough not to make my previous mistake again. And even though neither of them have acknowledged me, I offer an "Excuse me" before heading up to my office.

 

 

* * *

I'm able to lose myself in paperwork for the next few hours. I ignore the radio, the beeps and incidental prison noises, and I wonder why no calls have come through for me until I notice that my phone has been knocked-- perhaps subconsciously-- from the cradle. Perhaps this-- losing myself in my work, focussing on those I  _can_  help (Tigre's paperwork is in order-- I've recommended the transfer; Crescend's is getting there-- I've listed him as a low risk and stated that I feel he is of no risk to society and that parole with certain conditions-- including mental health follow-ups-- is appropriate for him if he's paroled) is my way of dealing with grief I really have no right to.

  
I'm radioed for appointment bookings on the phone, and am pleased when I get Parke asking if I have places vacant for Tobaye and Wellington. They'll be simple consultations, I assume, something to take my mind off Engarde. I agree to them, and Parke stays on the line. "Can I see you first?" he asks. In the overwhelming sadness and confusion, I'd forgotten how good it was to see him back, and how welcome his voice sounded. 

  
"I'm worried about Gavin," he tells me. 

I try to smile and shrug it off. "I think everyone's worried about Gavin," I say casually. "If we weren't worried about Gavin, he wouldn't be here, would he?"

Parke sees through my false lack of concern. "He hasn't been seeing you regularly, and all he's been doing today is sitting in the rec room with Tobaye, making sure it stays on court TV."

"He didn't attend his work detail?" 

"He has work this afternoon," Parke says. And then he looks vaguely horrified, like something's just occurred to him. "Um-- that's another thing-- assuming Matt Engarde's chances run out," he says awkwardly, "We're  _probably_  going to receive the body back here until his next of kin decide to claim ... _him_. You know, for burial or whatever they decide to do." 

Thinking about what Engarde told me about his family, and about the still-slightly-glowing fanbase he appeared to have make me feel uncomfortable for another reason. 

I'd not even considered any of this, like part of my brain can't fathom Engarde actually  _being_  "a body." 

"Maybe moving Gavin to the morgue wasn't such a great idea after all." 

Parke shrugs. "It's not just about this Engarde thing," he says. "He's just shut down since I saw him last time; has he spoken to you much about the attack? Or about anything?" 

"I've tried to engage with him, but I've found it... challenging." 

"I'm hoping that seeing Tobaye come up for a session will inspire him," he says.

"Like that's going to happen." I try to tell myself that I would have been this cynical under normal circumstances, too. It doesn't take much convincing. 

Parke sighs. "I realise he isn't influenced by Tobaye," he says. "But I'm wondering if he'll possibly come up with some scheme to manipulate things a bit more than he usually does, or he'll want some dirt on his new room mate-- or...  _something_ \-- and he'll come up here and have a talk to you."

I'd never really credited Parke with being so manipulative himself, and I want to smile. But there's a deadness in the air, heavy and cold, and I can't bring myself to do even that much any more.

"I'm tempted to put him on obs, actually," he says. "He doesn't look like the man I last saw here; if he's got any inclination towards depression-- or using the illusion of depression to cover up some greater plan--" He fills it in quickly, like he's covering his bases, just in case Gavin really doesn't  _care_. Though I can understand why Parke might be thinking that. Gavin uses every tool available to him to make things happen. A veil of understandable depression which he refuses to talk about seems like just another tool, and I don't know what to say. Not having talked to Gavin recently, and fearing I've lost some of my rapport with him, I can only guess as well as Parke what he might be planning next.

 

"I've nearly completed Crescend's paperwork," I say vacantly. "And I emailled Tigre's to you for confirmation and a letterhead." 

  
"Thanks."

Parke smiles faintly. "I suppose if we don't get these two back, it's a good thing."

"Oh-- that's another thing-- Crescend's wanting to use the music room since Tobaye can-- he seems to believe it would be beneficial to his mental health if he got that--"

"If we get him parolled, he won't need the music room."

  
There's a weird silence in the air, like we're both aware that we're just filling in conversation and like he wants to say something else to me. And I think he's not going to; from my desk, I watch him step towards the door, and then he turns around, changing his mind.

"Look," he tells me. "I'm sorry about Engarde. Christ knows you put a lot more work into that kid than anyone else here has." 

The lump on the back of my neck feels hot, and my throat feels tight. I don't know what to say to Parke, but he seems to know what to say to me. 

"I'll send Wellington up in five." 

* * *

Wellington looks alert and invigorated, and it's not hard to see why. In some ways, I can't be irritated with him because at least it's some sort of colour added to my day, something that isn't paperwork or reminding myself not to dwell on what I can't fix. 

He smiles at my triumphantly. "Hello, doctor," he chirps as he sits down without being invited to.

"Hello, Mr. Wellington."

I don't really know why he's here. 

"I know you probably are too busy with other people's petty problems," he says melodramatically, "But I have something I  _need_  to discuss with you." 

There is something so outlandish about his tone that I'm waiting for the penny to drop, to be asked for something ridiculous. 

"What would you like to talk about with me?" 

"Well, doctor--" Long fingers twirl the spiral of fringe at the side of his face absently. "If my powers of deductive reasoning are to be believed, Engarde's going to fry or hang or whatever nasty business they do interstate where I don't have to worry about it."

He's the old Wellington, the Wellington who was here when he was first admitted, and the transformation is startling. He's cocky and pleased with himself, a chatty little conversationalist, bold and alert and still convinced of his own superiority. I guess what's happening to Engarde feels doubly amusing to him since he too faced the death penalty years ago.

"We're not here to discu--" I stop myself from saying that, suddenly aware of my own hypocrisy. If Gavin showed up wanting to talk about Engarde, I'd be willing to listen. Perhaps, in his own way, this is Wellington dealing with grief. Or change, at least.

"What was that?" he asks. "We don't get to talk about other inmates?" He flashes a smile at me and those eyes which seduced money out of thousands of other suckers flash in a split second. "Well judging from what I saw on Court TV today, Engarde's going to be taking a one-way trip interstate," he says casually. "Even his own lawyer knows he did it." He sniffs. "So much for Gavin's little prodigy: the kid-- and he  _looks_  like a kid, too-- just clammed up in court and isn't even raising any of those all-famous objections about anything." He chuckles to himself.

" _Anyway_ \--" he continues-- "I realise that a friend of mine might be taking this twist in plot a bit differently to the way I am--"

I'm suspicious now, honed and geared up, waiting for the punchline. 

"We're not here to talk about other inmates, Mr. Wellington," I warn him. "And it appears that you don't have--"

  
"Wait wait wait." He smiles at me, batting his eyelashes at me, theatrical and confident. "I won't even  _pretend_  that Engarde and I ever got on very well-- well, we did when he first showed up and I was showing him the ropes and the two of us worked together for one common goal and all that business stuff--" He lets it fly past so casually, and I suspect I know what he's talking about well enough-- the days where he and Engarde provided sexual services to anyone Gant wished to extort favours from-- "But then he went weird and started saying some completely horrible things and--"

  
I don't know whether to clear my throat or hope that if he continues, he'll have a point. 

" _Anyway_ ," he says. "I know Gant liked him. I know Gant genuinely liked him, and I know Gant will be  _most devastated_ , poor thing, to have lost his psychotic little bitch of a room mate." 

Not that he doesn't sound completely over the moon about it.

"Anyway," he says. "Since you and Engarde kind of got me into trouble all that time ago with Dr. Smeer-- remember that, doc?--" Suddenly the flash in his eyes has changed to something quite sinister-- "So I'd really be prepared to play forgive and forget if you could let me room with him for the sake of his depression and grief."

I raise my eyebrows. "So  _this_  was why you came here?" I ask, unimpressed. 

"Well, of  _course_ ," he says. "Because this is about mental health and everything, and I think that perhaps Gant and I would both cope a bit better with Engarde's  _departure_  if we could comfort one another."

And I don't know what it is, but something shakes in me, a terrible silent growl of unprofessional rage. For so long I've felt it now, little echoes and whispers and hints, that I'm not actually being taken seriously, that my role isn't that of psychiatrist any more-- especially when that role is being handed, neatly packaged and appealing-- to people like deNong's nearest and dearest. 

"Mr. Wellington," I tell him in curt tones. "I have no influence over the way rooming arrangements are handled here."

"Sure you do," he says with a smile. "All you need to do is say that it's good for my mental health, just like you do for everyone else, and then Gant and I get to room together, everything goes back to normal, and it's happy days for all."

"So this was it?" I ask. I'm stifling the rage, holding it in and I'm trying not to shake.

"Well-- to be honest, I thought I'd try," he says. He starts standing up, realising that his sales pitch, his con job, his unpretty persuasion-- isn't going to work on me. 

"I mean, it was either sit in the TV room and watch court TV-- hey, I wonder if Gavin might want to talk to me again now that he needs a fuck--?"-- he's being outlandish and cocky and shocking for the sake of it--

And I've had enough.

I don't even look at him when I pick up the phone and dial Parke. Parke doesn't answer his line; he's likely busy on the floor. So I radio for staff assistance, as Wellington ponders loudly to himself about Gavin and Engarde's relationship, making lewd insinuations I can imagine Gavin wrinkling his nose and snorting with disgust at. 

When Towne arrives, looking surprised-- Wellington is usually so compliant and cooperative-- all I do is glare and the look at Wellington, whose monologue has ceased for the moment. 

"Get him back on the floor," I say in no uncertain terms. "And tell him next time he wants to waste my time, he can  _wait_." 

I'm shaking as the door closes behind him, and a very real fear confronts me: perhaps this is all it is going to take for me to burn out.

 

  


It's not really that Gavin's holding court and somehow demanding that the unit be glued to Court TV in the recreation room during free time. The whole unit has become engrossed; for the first time in years, Matt Engarde is a celebrity again.

Of course, it probably helps that Gavin is seated next to Machi Tobaye, all six-foot-something of him, muscular and chaotic and unpredictably dangerous. Tobaye is a buffer, to a degree; no one wants to be noticed by him, and no one wants to get in his way. All it takes is Rolla to stupidly stand up during the hearing, as though he's about to change the channel, and Tobaye to cast a glare at him. Gold, one of the recent arrivals, has already learned what's what, and he taps him on the shoulder. Rolla sits back down.

I'm watching the scene from the top of the stairwell, curious and surprised that Gavin has made no attempt to discuss what's happening with me. He isn't part of the group with Engarde's departure; he sits back and watches, his expression unreadable from the distance I'm standing at.

And of course, it's not just the inmates watching the whole drama unfold, either. 

 

  
In the staffroom, the TV is on, even though the volume is turned down low, as though we don't need spoken words to understand what's happening. We can read facial expressions. 

I try not to pay attention, but when Parke and I are alone in the staffroom that afternoon, and Parke looks from the TV to me, murmuring something, my eyes are drawn to the scene. Engarde is shown looking completely blank, the orange uniform clashing badly with the rest of him, his hands in cuffs. 

"Something's not right about this," Parke mutters to me, and all I can do is nod. The camera shifts to Klavier Gavin, casually objecting to something. "They're too lazy about what they're doing; there's no effort. They're like actors in a B-grade movie." 

The camera shifts back to Engarde and his empty expression.

"And if Engarde's paying top dollar for that lawyer, he's just as stupid as everyone says he is," Parke says. "That lawyer hasn't really objected to anything. He's just taking it."

Parke doesn't know the intricacies of the situation between the Gavins and Apollo Justice and how Engarde's become embroiled in them. But he can see it as clearly as I can, and he knows exactly what Lily and I do. 

I just don't know how to tell him that I know what's going on, that his suspicions are correct, and that there's nothing any of us can do about it. 

"I kind of feel sorry for the stupid fuck," he says affectionately. "I still don't buy that those drugs came in because of him or that he had enough clout on the outside to get someone from interstate to call them in."

I just nod. A court recess cuts to advertisements; predictably, short, cheaply-made ads for petty crime and accident lawyers-- and Parke turns to me. 

"I know Tobaye cancelled his appointment," he says, "But I want you to talk to Gavin about what's going on."

"I know." I sigh. I'm still not sure why Tobaye cancelled, and I wonder vaguely if that was because he told Gavin, and Gavin wanted the free space to see me. If that happened, I'm surprised. "I just don't think he wants to talk to me."

"Well he needs to."

I don't know what's made Parke so concerned about Gavin's mental health, but he fills me in a moment later. "He's getting awfully close to Tobaye," he says, "And Tobaye's a vulnerable and dangerous kid who doesn't know any better. Christ knows what Gavin in a bad mood will do to him if he gets his tentacles into him. Especially given the political climate with Tobaye and some of the others."

"At this stage, Tobaye's in the clear. Crescend's hoping for parole--"

  
"Which he won't get," Parke says bluntly. "The guy killed a high-ranking official in cold blood and he was a detective. He could do a complete one-eighty, he could be a poster boy for good behaviour, he could have found Jesus and be licking the Chief Justice's balls every five minutes and still, there's no way in hell he won't do at least ten years."

  
He's right, but it's disappointing to hear it. I've seen Crescend try hard for it, I've watched him reel his rage in, I've seen him  _not_  go out on the war path for revenge against any of the mass of people who've pissed him off. I've seen him exercise more self-control than most of the others. And I've heard about his motivation for wanting to get out: a terminally ill family member. 

"What I'm worried about is what's going to happen once Crescend knows this and all that rage and anger has to go somewhere," he says. "Because--"

"Maybe we should give him back the music room?"

Parke nods. "He only got in trouble because of Engarde anyway; and with Engarde gone-- and Engarde didn't even need to be in there to begin with-- we can make a case for him using it as anger management," he says nodding. "But we need to make sure that's in place before he feels like he's got nothing left to lose and that he's gonna take it out on Tobaye or Gavin or whatever else around here."

"I don't think he'd take on Tobaye." For reasons of practicality rather than anything else. Crescend isn't stupid, and he picks his fights, usually going the verbal route rather than the physical. And he realises that Tobaye has limited English and a hair-trigger temper, and that he's built like a weight lifter. 

"I wouldn't put it past him. I wouldn't put it past any of them," he says. "You know what I think's gonna happen?" He glances up at the screen; court is back in session and the camera cuts to a now stoic Matt Engarde. Parke pauses uncomfortably and the looks back at me. "Toppling Tobaye is going to become some sort of goal, unless one of the groups co-opts him."

"If Tigre gets transferred, Gant might be looking for muscle--"

"Gant's already looking," Parke says. "Tigre knows he's out, and he's distanced himself from them. He's not young any more, and I think White's death shook him up as did what happened to Klavier Gavin when White killed himself." 

"Maybe he'll align with Behr?"

"Nope." Parke shrugs. "Behr's a lone wolf. And he's got his suspicions about being seen as an affiliate with any of the ethnic groups."

I nod. 

"Makes sense," Parke continues. "He's respected and feared by them if he doesn't hide behind any one. Not to mention, he's a free agent and he's probably dirtied his hands for all of them at one time or another. Or he's been prepared to." 

"I thought Tobaye wasn't--"

Parke smirks, and his voice drops. "Of course he's not," he says. "He's too young to be considered for  _Caltzca_  and he's not connected. Not to mention, he's a world-recognised celebrity. He probably has some thug fans and maybe his bodyguards back in the home lands were sourced from less than legal operations, but there's no way in hell he's in with them," he says. "He's just smart enough to let on that he is lest he become another Matt Engarde."

 _Another Matt Engarde_. I glance up at the TV screen and Klavier Gavin and Apollo Justice are laughing good-naturedly at one another across the court room. Engarde is scratching absently at a long, partially-healed cut down the side of his face. He doesn't seem to be in on the joke. It almost seems unfair-- as well as unjust-- that Engarde has survived so much since finding his way into prison-- rape and suicide attempts and drug overdoses and what might have been an attempt to kill him-- and Kristoph Gavin's warped affection, as well as the cruelty and indifference from men like Waverley-- and yet what's going to cost him his life is so sanitised and random: the system itself rather than a specific act of violence. 

  
I wonder if Engarde sees the sickening irony too.

"Anyway--" Parke clears his throat. "I want you to see Gavin. ASAP-- because an undiffused Gavin is going to have a ripple effect on the rest of this place, and that kid is going to get caught up in it. And--" He sighs. "I never wanted to change the world, but the least I can do here is stop it getting any worse for a kid that shouldn't even be in here." 

I smile at him; sometimes they get under your skin, and this one has possibly gotten under Parke's. 

"All right," I tell him. I'm thinking about how I'm going to address Engarde's departure with him; grief with a man who believes he's incapable of it. With a man who may just be incapable of it.

 

 

* * *

 

  
"Hello, doctor." Gavin sits down elegantly, his voice perfectly normal, clipped and slightly nasal, detached and professional. It's like nothing out of the ordinary is happening. "It's been awhile since we've spoken, hasn't it?" he asks.

"How have you been?" I revert to normal, too, like I'm rising to his challenge of appearing perfectly unaffected.

His lips twist into a calm, demure little smile. "I'm doing quite well, given the circumstances, I believe," he says. "I suppose that really is up to you to decide, doctor, but--"

"You've always behaved as though you know yourself better than an outsider like me knows you, Mr. Gavin." 

He chuckles softly, and there's a spark in his eyes. "I believe you underestimate your ability, doctor," he says. "Or you're choosing to be modest or self-depreciative. I think that you know that you  _know_  how well you know me." He smiles again, almost flirtatiously.

I feel vaguely sickened, and I'm wondering if he's not really doing this for the usual sort of end result people expect when they flirt with others: perhaps this is about avoidance of an issue, maybe it's a push for dominance in our interaction. Maybe he just misses being able to have the simple power of being able to disgust or intimidate someone else. Maybe he likes trying it on with  _me_  because he knows I don't shock easily.

 _Aw._ He's missed me. I should be touched rather than disturbed and vaguely curious about the nightmares coming back.

"Maybe I don't know you at all," I say. "Perhaps you could fill me in on a few details."

"What would you like to talk about?" he asks. Pleasantly enough, of course, and with careful hands folded in his lap.

"Let's talk about what you're thinking about right now."

He looks scandalised for a second, and with a flick of an eyebrow, he smiles almost embarrassed. "Are you  _sure_  about that, doctor?" he asks.

  
 _Why is this guy more comfortable with talking about sexually violating people, taking advantage of people and stabbing people in the back than he is about his own emotions?_  Of course, if I knew the answer to that, if I had solid understanding, the question would be moot, and bizarrely, Gavin probably wouldn't hold my interest in the way he does. 

I just nod to him. "Anything on your mind."

He looks around the room, a caged animal surveying his surroundings. 

"I believe that what's happened here is partially my fault," he says finally.

"What are you talking about?"

He snaps back to attention and his eyes meet mine. "Engarde," he says. "I cannot help but feel that he chose Apollo Justice as his legal representation to spite me, and because of that, he's going to hang for it."

"You didn't make that decision for him."

"No, but he knew of my relationship with Justice." He strokes the back of his hand thoughtfully. "I suspect that he decided that seeking Justice's help-- and not mine-- would have been a subtle dig at me, in the way that Phoenix Wright did." He pauses. "Though Phoenix Wright had a plan; Engarde seemed to have one motivation, and that was to hurt me."

"And did it?" I ask.

"No. It has, however, make me see a side of both Justice and my brother which I'd never known existed." He stops, and a twitch ripples through his face, like an angry tic. "I always taught Justice to use the law for the truth," he says in a barely controlled hiss. " _Not_  as revenge; perhaps my own actions in that respect were dubious, but no one was supposed to find out about that, were they?" 

I don't say anything in response to that, and I feel like I could almost laugh at the hypocrisy he's trying to justify.  _No one was supposed to find out about that_. Just like no one was supposed to find out about his sexually assaulting Klavier, the poisoned stamp, the distributed prison time plans, the lubricant left in the drawer to kill Wright and anyone sexually involved with him long after Kristoph had been put away-- 

I want to argue that point, but I don't.

"Are you more bothered by seeing Justice in this light--" I ask-- "Or Engarde? Or Klavier?"

"I saw Klavier's true colours when he argued about the diary page in  _State v Gramarye_ ," he says. "I  _saw_  the look of triumph on his face; he  _knew_  he was going to be taking down a legend; of course, he was shaken afterwards, but that moment-- that one little expression that he made during that trial, such a definitive  _gotcha_ \-- suggested to me that Klavier could be just as vicious and competitive and _spiteful_  as anyone else." He steeples his fingers, thoughtful. "Everything else notable from there on has been vindication-- it's just that he has only had fleeting moments of it, pivotal points where he decides to let that break through the surface." 

  
"Like when he assaulted you at the variety show?" 

"Mmmm...  _that_ , and his choice of moment when he decided to reveal what had happened between us years earlier."

It's  _that_  moment where I'm jolted back to remembering what  _I'm_  dealing with; a man truly remorseless for his actions. I freeze up, not saying anything.

"Callous as it might sound," he continues, "Do you honestly believe that he didn't time that perfectly? He had an audience: he had you, he had Wright-- perhaps no one knew until then. He wasn't there for reconciliation: he was there to attack me."

I still can't say anything.  _Callous_  is only the beginning of it. But if he cannot know-- or  _do_  remorse, how can he be held accountable for thinking like that?

"In this case, he  _isn't_  disclosing the truth," Gavin mutters. "He's trying to use his authority to have a man killed." And as though considering my reaction, he adds, "I never did that." 

  
 _Yet you used your position to abuse your little brother and to do whatever you did to Apollo, didn't you?_  I choose not to comment on that.

What's interesting me here, though, rather than the prospect of an argument with Gavin, is the fact that he's still slipping outside of talking about the fact that he's bothered about Engarde's fate. But I'm not sure I should bring that to light at the moment.

"It's been noticed that you have a relationship with Tobaye," I say vaguely. 

"Yes," he says. "He cancelled his appointment with you so I could see you instead."

"Any reason for that?"

"I suppose I felt like talking to someone. And moving away from the television."

"How did you and Tobaye connect?" I ask. I'm scared I sound suspicious, but then again, I remember how he and Engarde first connected. 

  
"I suppose he wished for quiet company and an ear," he says with a shrug. "We play chess together." He looks thoughtful. "In some ways, he's more hardened than many of the men in here with us, but in other ways, he's very naive." He adjusts his glasses and looks at me. "Every so often, he entertains the idea of affiliating with one of the groups," he says. "I'm doubtful that I can stop him, though I hope if he does, he will still respect our relationship."

I'm not sure I like the way he says that word.

"Are the two of you sleeping together?"

"No," he says. He looks almost disgusted at the idea, a subtle cringe appearing on his face. "Tobaye has a girlfriend, and is, I suspect, completely indifferent to the idea of seeking pleasures with his own." His eyes narrow slightly. "I've  _heard_  what people have said," he says, "I remember hearing Waverley refer to me once as 'predatory and homosexual' to one of the staff who'd come in from one of the other units, as though I was somehow the most evil, vile, dangerous person on the floor." He smirks at me. "Which is almost amusingly ironic, coming from him."

  
Change the subject. Now there are two people who he doesn't want to talk about. 

"So Tobaye--"

"I'm not especially interested in him, on any level," he says. "He's my room mate, in the same way that Ruce was, and I doubt anyone speculated upon whether the two of  _us_  were engaged in sexual activity." He blinks at me. "Tobaye is convenient," he says. And he uncrosses his folded legs, shifting them back over one another in the reverse position. "We could continue discussing him, but I doubt that would provide you with any professional insight, and I always thought we weren't here to discuss other inmates."

That's when I take the plunge.

"It's convenient for you to be avoiding talking about Engarde, isn't it?" I ask.

"No-- why would that be?"

 _Bingo_. His hand moves a little too quickly over the potential devil scar. 

"Because you miss him."

"Are you sure you're not projecting, doctor?" He's not smiling, oddly enough. "Perhaps you're  _hoping_  I miss Engarde and that I'm worried about him because it somehow offsets the dreadful things I've done."

  
"My feelings towards you are irrelevent."

He smiles then, slowly and interested. "They can't be, doctor," he says. "You've known me for too long, you've seen aspects of my life you haven't with other inmates, you've had some kind of-- whether it excites or disgusts you-- _relationship_ with me. I've aroused you on some level, and I'm perfectly aware of that."

And then the smile drops away, and I realise that in amongst that, there's been a confronting truth. He's distracting and magnetic, whether or not you want him to be. 

I clear my throat. "Let's talk about your dealing with loss." 

"Now who's skirting around talking about someone?"

"We're not here," I force out, teeth gritted, "To talk about  _me_." 

"I would have thought it was a welcome change from talking about most of the other riff-raff you have to deal with."

"Mr. Gavin," I say sternly. "As I have stated before, I'm not going to be able to continue seeing you if you wish to merely play games with me."

"So you would prefer I see Dr. Smeer?" he asks. " _Really_?" He raises an eyebrow. "I think we've  _all_  heard about his level of professionalism and game-playing--"

"Perhaps you don't need psychiatric consultation."

"I can't see you getting rid of me that easily." 

And there's that awful feeling in the pit of my stomach, that he's correct. I think of Lauryn and her beautiful practice and the possibility of normal nine-to-five hours and reasonably ordinary clients. 

  
"And if I left?" I ask. 

 

  
It's that moment where I realise that I've spoken something I've been subconsciously considering; skirting around in my thoughts and not giving any serious consideration: resignation. Everyone talks about quitting this place, everyone vaguely wonders about what it would be like to work in some usually worse job with lousier pay and crappier conditions-- yet all of us stay. It has a way of doing it to you; but it's Kristoph Gavin who's pushed me to the brink of verballising it to anyone else in a way that I never have done before inside the prison. 

The expression he gives me is an odd one; it's like he can't really believe what I've said, either. 

"I suppose I'd have to see Smeer then, wouldn't I?" he asks. "Though I have no respect for him and I cannot say I like him that much, so I suspect it would be reduced to a series of sessions where I'd be merely antagonising him." He says nothing of the elephant in the room, at first, though is quick to add-- "I know Engarde didn't offer or provide him with any sex acts-- and I would not have reason to, either. Furthermore, I suspect Dr. Smeer's tastes wouldn't be compatible with the way I prefer to do things." 

Ignoring the obvious attempt at disturbing me, I go for the surreal. 

"What would you have done if you'd never met Matt Engarde?" I ask. "I recall you asking me for conjugal visits at one stage, pointing out that you were, like others, a man with needs."

He chuckles then, and his glasses shift down his nose. "I originally had my eye on Wellington," he says. "Educated, slight, unfazed by some of my darker urges--" he cuts himself off. "Wellington unfortunately wanted me to join in with the Gant group," he says. "And I suppose that's where a number of my troubles originated." He shrugs. "I have never been interested in owing anyone anything here, and the more I came to understand the way Wellington operated, the less I liked him." He blinks. "It didn't take me long to realise that his  _class_  was entirely manufactured. He was a boorish, manipulative, hysterical twit."

Speaking about Wellington reminds me of the first time I really engaged with Gavin; those bloodied handprints on the walls. Wellington's blood, daubed around almost comically, like someone had been doing an art exercise. 

"Is that why you hit him?" 

"What?" Gavin adjusts his glasses and looks at me curiously. "I haven't touched--  _Oh._ " He blinks. " _That_." And then, as though it's of no significance-- "That was a long time ago."

"Did you assault him because of his expectations with you in the Gant group?"

"Oh, no-- that wasn't a non-consensual assault." Scarily enough, I believe he's telling the truth. "He asked me to hit him, badly enough for him to be sent off the unit for awhile."

"And you did?"

"Oh, I was repaid quite nicely for it," he says idly. "At the time it seemed reasonable, anyway, but in hindsight, I suspect Wellington was trying to set me up as a target for Gant and his friends when I was returned from solitary confinement."

This is the first I've heard of this, and I should be intrigued. But it's almost tiresome; he's merely using the truth from an incident nearly eighteen months ago to avoid talking about what he's feeling  _now_. "Why?"

He fiddles with his hands a bit more, eyes on his fingers as they click with a sickening crack. "I suspect Gant wanted me on board as one of his whores," he says. "And I believe that Wellington felt that if he were the one to bring me into the fold, his status within the group would be elevated," he says. "Which of course wouldn't happen, but I suspect the man has an over-inflated sense of importance amongst that crowd anyway."

He blinks, looking unimpressed. "Anyway, he told me that I could think about it when I refused, and he offered me particular services which I gladly accepted. I felt they were  _pro bono_  and that any favour was only implied, and would only come when my mind was made up about joining Team Gant."

  
"But you didn't join?"

"No, but then a few days later, Wellington came to me, and just asked me to hit him as hard as I could, to knock him out, to send him to the hospital for awhile. Of course he threatened blackmail, and stated that he'd tell Waverley that I'd forced myself upon him when he'd offered earlier favours."

"And... you did?"

He combs a few strands of hair from his face. "I believed I'd been manipulated into a corner," he says calmly. "Where I had two solutions; one was to be sent to solitary and branded a rapist by the authorities and then the rest of the prison population; the other was to be able to hit Richard Wellington, to exact a blunt, doable revenge which I was capable of, and to be branded fearsome in the same fashion as Tobaye has. Of course, it also had the added effect of enraging Gant and his friends even more, but I suspect that would have been inevitable. At least they _hate_  me, as opposed to wanting me to join their faction."

"Why did you believe the authorities would side with Wellington if he said that about you?"

  
"Because I knew he was in with Waverley from early on," he says. And he fidgets awkwardly, his elegant fingertips massaging the back of his hand where the notorious scarring appears. Like he's willing it not to. "Waverley witnessed the initial assault against me," he says.

I exhale slowly. "Which assault?"

"Two days after the death penalty had been repealed," he says slowly. "It's one of the few bland days I remember in complete snapshots; it's as though I'm replaying a film in my mind." He smiles vacantly. "I was ambushed by a group of men in the showers one morning-- perhaps due to my own physical prowess, perhaps it was luck, perhaps it was never actually  _meant_  to do more than terrify me into bending to their will-- nothing happened," he says. But Parke walked in because he'd been looking for Waverley, whom I hadn't realised was there. In hindsight, he may have been standing watch over these men lest someone else see what they were doing." He speaks in monotone, as though he's reading from a telephone book. "From that day on, I knew I couldn't trust Waverley and that for some reason he would protect some people more than others."

"But wasn't Well--"

"Wellington came to me a week later with the request. By the time he'd asked for the favour to be returned, I was surprised, and I suspected that he was wanting a viable excuse to distance himself from the group." He looks distant and thoughtful, as he gazes up into a corner of walls and ceiling. "I almost felt sorry for him, to be honest. But just after I'd punched him, I had this sense-- perhaps it was remorse, perhaps it was just fear-- I realised I'd done the wrong thing."

I just nod, watching him. "I was terribly naive back then," he says almost apologetically. "That was my foray into the subtle intricacies of power and control in this system; prior to my own conviction, would you believe that I'd never seen the inside of a prison before?"

I just nod. I'd never seen the inside of a prison until I started working here.

"I suppose it was easy for me to be misled," Gavin continues; "Especially since most of these men were people just like I was in the outside world; professional, respected members of society." He sniffs. " _Gant_  was the chief of police when I was a teenager, I remember. White was a billionaire businessman with an  _empire_. Legend held it that they'd called Manfred von Karma-- world-reknowned prosecutor and genius-- their third member-- these aren't petty  _nobodies_  we're talking about here, doctor; these men were the pinnacle of high society."

I nod. There's something humble in his voice, as though he's quite disgusted with himself for failing to suspect them, for believing that they were above the animalistic pecking order of prison life. 

  
"And Matt Engarde was a world-renowned actor," I add.

He stares through me. 

"Engarde tacked along with them, and I could  _see_  he was being used as much as he could; I actually loathed him the most of them for awhile because it was obvious  _why_  he was going along with things."

"And why do you believe that was?"

" _Fear_ ," he says with disgust. "Fear and desperation for safety." He sits back in his chair, and his expression turns to one of consideration. "I felt like all my Christmases had come at once when he became my room mate," he says. "Ironic, really; given the way things eventually turned out." There's a faint, fond smile on his lips. "I'll always have my memories of Engarde," he says. And there's sadness in his voice, like he knows it's over already. "I just wish I could stop superimposing the Engarde I'm seeing in court over the top of them." 

And his face twitches. Slightly, and only for less than a second; it's worry, rather than fury. I don't know what to say to him. In the days of the death penalty, I sometimes had to deal with men losing their associates to the state, but it was rare for them to have the sort of relationship Gavin and Engarde did. It feels awkward listening to this, and knowing I can't do anything. I selfishly wish we'd stayed on other topics, because I'm feeling helpless right now. In the pit of my stomach there's that ill-ease again:  _I didn't sign up for this_. 

"Is there anything I can offer you?" I ask him gently.

"No, thankyou," he says, his voice perfectly polite and quiet. "I'll deal with this." He straightens up in his chair. "This is just another loss, and it wasn't as though we were particularly close when I last saw him, anyway." 

There's a weird silence in the office after that statement, and I wonder to myself if that's all he needed to do for closure. He looks back at me, determined and calm, and gives me a little nod. "I think we've finished up here for the day," he says, a deceptively Stepford smile--  _too_  harmless and sunny and unaffected-- appearing across his face.

"Okay--"

He pushed his glasses up his nose. "Thankyou, doctor." 

As Field escorts him back onto the unit and presumably to his afternoon work duty, I call Parke on the unit.

"I want someone with him at all times," I say in a rush, still reeling for his presentation and the supposed calm. "Put him on constant observations-- I want him on documented suicide watch." With the  _mmmm_  of agreement I get on the other end of the phone, I can tell Parke won't even ask why. 

And then there's my curiousity-- I suspect Parke has been following the trial while I've been locked away in my office with Gavin.

"How's it looking?" I ask timidly.

"Not good," Parke says. "They're not even pinning anything to the guy, and his lawyer's too busy goofing around and offering unrelated evidence; stuff from ten years ago, that sort of thing."

I sigh. Almost, then, for Gavin's sake, I want it to be over with quickly. Almost.

 

 

 

Parke and I leave the building at the same time that evening, and we walk out to our cars feeling the pressure of a long day draining from us.

"Ever feel that these are the moments you live for?" he asks. "The bit where you just know you get to go the fuck home and you've got a few hours where you can just  _kick back_  and at least hope that no one rings if you're on-call?"

"Yeah," I say vaguely. But my mind's on something else: Anna's impending visit. Towards the end of the afternoon I received an email about picking her up from the airport next week. But Parke doesn't have kids; Parke has a failing marriage and a vacant homelife, from the sounds of it. I'm not going to tell him about my family.

"It should be quieter without Engarde here, you know-- but it's not," he says. "And the admin stuff's been doing my head in; those electrical contractors we got in last time are refusing to admit that they fucked up, and they're saying they don't deal with security features." He sighs, looking unimpressed. "So I now need to get approval from the higher-ups to get a new company in-- and Christ knows how long that'll take for them to grant funding and approval."

"I guess it's good that no one's decided to set off the sprinklers."

He shrugs. "Wait til we get some pepped up smartarse in here who finds it all a big joke. We'll have an incident, I swear." He fossicks through his pockets for a pack of cigarettes and hands it out to me. I give him a nod of thanks and take one. Both of us light up at the same time.

"How's Gavin?" I venture. I haven't seen him since his session. And I'm worried.

"Pissed off that he's on suicide watch," he says. "He told Denham that it's making him a target because everyone knows about Engarde and the trial. That's all they were watching tonight, actually; the godamnned news."

"How're the rest of them?"

"Curious," he says, exhaling a stream of smoke which looks white in the night air. "Like when a guy's about to jump off a building and a bunch of random people collect at the bottom watching or telling him to jump; they don't give a fuck, it's just something to make the day more interesting."

"Matt Engarde's on TV again."

"Matt Engarde is  _screwed_." He flicks ash on the ground, and his voice drops. "I honestly don't think he did it," he says. "I know word around everyone is that he did, that apparently it was retaliation for Plan teaming up with Gant's group, but I don't buy it.  _The Nickel Samurai_  was pretty terrible in terms of acting; Engarde just needed to be fit and to recite some lines. It wasn't like there was much acting involved, and he's too unstable to keep a lie straight."

I nod. "I agree with you. I just don't know what we can do about it."

Parke laughs bitterly. " _Do_  about it? None of us can do anything. We wait for him to get sent interstate, for Prison Services to pick up whatever possessions he has here, and then we work out how to manage Gavin when the news says Engarde's been executed."

We've approached my car, we're nearly at the end of our exchange and Parke realises it. But he looks determined to get a couple of answers. 

"Any ideas, doc?" 

"We keep him on suicide watch," I say. "Beyond that, I guess we roll with his movements and watch what he does. I feel conflicted saying it, but I do anyway-- "I don't think he's going to react violently, so I doubt there's any risk to staff."

"Yet what he did to Wellington..."

"He actually talked about that today," I tell him. "And he hasn't been aggressive since th--"

"If you ignore everything that's happened to Matt Engarde."

"That was different."

Parke raises an eyebrow. "Not really," he says. "It still shows that he can be  _violent_." 

"He's a sexual sadist." 

Parke frowns, unimpressed. He doesn't  _get_  paraphilias. It's not his  _job_  to understand. But I can still notice there's a difference between that sort of aggression and the regular knee-jerk explosions of rage from other inmates. 

"He's a fucking sicko and he's been capable of killing someone in the flash of a moment before, so I wouldn't put it past him," Parke tells me. "Look, I don't dislike the guy; sure, he's unbalanced and creepy, but that's all of them for the most part. But Gavin is  _strong_. And he  _reacts_."

"He assisted the medical staff when Engarde needed to be hospitalised after passing out."

"He was the  _reason_  Engarde passed out." And his brow wrinkles then. "I'm still worried he's going to make a move on Tobaye. That poor kid doesn't have a chance." I can hear the concern and disgust welling in his voice. "Tobaye follows him around like a puppy-- yeah, maybe an oversized pitbull of a puppy, but still," he says. "They looked awfully close this afternoon."

"In what respect?"

"Just the way they were watching TV together. Soon it'll be bedtime stories and creepy sex games."

"Tobaye is heterosexual."

"Tobaye hasn't shared a room with Kristoph Gavin." 

"I don't think his powers of seduction are that good," I tell him. "They haven't worked on you, have they?" 

Parke laughs. "Hell no," he says with an uncomfortable laugh. Then he diverts the attention. "Maybe you're a more accurate judge of that-- you see him more than anyone else does-- other than Rick, I guess."

  
I'm reminded of Gavin's... almost flirtation. Th kiss. The attempts at touching me and shocking me. The dreams. Maybe he doesn't need me seduced, he needs me shocked into submission, uncomfortable and wondering if he  _has_  gotten into my head.

I don't tell Parke. 

"I can't imagine he's Rick's type." Rick has always come across as perfectly benign and asexual. I wonder if Gavin has tried influencing and manipulating  _him_ , and before I can speak to that, Parke interrupts--

"By the way," he says, "Speaking of Rick and Gavin's... work duties-- we're looking at moving him out of the morgue so he... doesn't have to deal with anything involving Engarde."

"That was kind of you."

"I'm more concerned that it might cause him to... escalate... or behave inappropriately... or that if he has access to personal records of Engarde's, he might... I don't know. It doesn't seem right, though. It makes me think of that time when I went to Mexico and I was eating something with chicken in it and I randomly threw some of it to this rooster that was hanging around. And then I realised that I'd fed this rooster _chicken_  and that just seemed _wrong_ , you know?" The comparison is perfect, but kind of ghastly at the same time.

I nod. "The very least it will do is stop things getting worse." I pause. "Where are you thinking of putting Gavin?" 

"Not sure yet; next Wednesday we get our ins and outs, so it depends on who we get in and who gets out..." He looks thoughtful. "We might lose Crescend and Tigre." 

"I hope so." I smile.

"Crescend ain't going anywhere."

I sigh. "I know. I can still hope, though." 

"Hell, we might get Engarde back."

I smile again, and it's sad; there isn't cruelty in Parke's sarcasm, just a strange bittersweet sadness at both his circumstances and the notion of having hope in a place like this. 

"I'd better get going," he says. "Got a hot date with a bottle of Jack and the 'tube." 

And I laugh then, and it's not cruel but it's bittersweet sadness at  _our_  circumstances. I can't help but perk up as he walks away: I get to arrange when I'll be seeing my daughter.

 

 

 

I'm distracted and consumed when I come into work the next morning. Anna's going to be at the airport on Saturday afternoon, I'm going to be picking her up, and I have a week to spend doing normal, ordinary family things with my daughter.

I shift between elation and terror. Part of me wonders if she, like Gavin, is hiding an intense and violent rage, if underneath the conversation and chatter, she despises me and is just waiting for the appropriate time to lash out. 

Part of me is wondering if I'm ruined my chance to be a father, if she wants nothing to do with me, if this visit is just a final goodbye before she becomes Alan's stepdaughter.

And then I think to myself that all of this, all this insecurity and concern is proof that I love her and don't want to lose her, and yet at the same time, it's entirely my fault if I do.

And then the wave of elation hits me again when I think about seeing my daughter in a few days time.

"Tobaye's girlfriend is visiting today," Parke tells us at the meeting that morning.

"That was quick," Lily says. "Don't they usually take longer for clearance of non-blood minors?" She's right, but I have suspicions about why Parke made things hurry up.

"We want to impress upon Tobaye that he's got a life outside of this place and that he has people who love him and care about, and that he has people  _he_  loves and cares about, before this place starts getting to him."

"And before that perve Gavin gets into him," Waverley mutters.

"Moving along," Parke continues, "Yeah: we've got Lisbeta Vovachi-- I think that's how you pronounce it-- coming in later today."

"Not during visiting hours?"

"No," Parke say, "Special arrangement-- because Tobaye is so young, has such a long sentence and is already displaying erratic behaviour, it was pushed forward."

Everyone in the staffroom murmurs; whether they're unimpressed or okay with this is irrelevant.

"It's a supervised visit," Parke continues, "So it means someone's off the floor for an hour-- and we'll do it in one of the professional suites because she's an unaccompanied minor."

"Wait," Lily says. "Unaccompanied?"

"No one got clearance for her parents."

"Yet they did for a  _kid_?"

"Tobaye contacted his lawyer," Parke says. "And the parents agreed, but usually the only minors we get in here are children  _of_  our inmates, or nieces and nephews and stuff-- and clearance for them isn't as complicated." He sighs. "This place isn't equipped to deal with kids."

"We're not a fucken daycare centre," Waverley snarls.

And Parke, who's already starting to look annoyed with his interjections, speaks up. "Waverley," he snaps. "You're on the visit."

 

When Crescend turns up in my office, he seems oddly peaceful, and I get the sick feeling that he's suspecting his parole will go through. He folds his hands, rather than than using them to talk, and I notice that he doesn't ask about the music room. 

"You done my report, doctor?" he asks, his icy blue eyes sparkling at me hopefully. I just nod, and offer him what hopefully doesn't look like a smile suggesting that the courts' decision doesn't end with my word.

"Yes," I tell him. "But they could still knock you back--"

"I know," he says, but I don't think he's thought about it. "But hey-- I've been fucken  _good_  in here. I haven't touched Tobaye, the little fuck-- and I coulda beat the shit out of Engarde after him getting the music room off-limits, but I controlled myself. And I've stayed outta trouble." He smiles at me. It's funny how his pointed teeth actually look friendly when his mouth is mostly shut.

"I've even kept clear of Gavin," he says, "And seriously, if anyone deserves to be kicked in the head, it's him."

I nod. "No plans for revenge?" I ask.

"Nope. Not when I've gotta get out this bad." He looks at me, urgent. "Did you say about my--  _family matters_  in the report?"

"Yes," I tell him with another nod. 

"You sorted out my meds, so when I get out, I can stay on that shit?"

I hate where this is going, but I nod anyway. "Everything's taken care of, so if you are released--"

"Good," he says. And he looks thoughtful. "It's a shame Engarde isn't here-- hell, I'd do a mediation with him if I thought it'd make my case look better."

"I think we've got the best we can for you," I tell him. "And I sincerely hope that the courts parole you."

"I can do community service or some shit," he says. "I can teach street kids how to jam or something."

  
I smile, and feel my insides tighten up and sweat running down the back of my neck. I've tried preparing him for the reality. I almost want him to enjoy and relish a few days where he believes freedom will be forthcoming.

 

  
The rest of the day goes interestingly. From my office, I see the circus of Machi's girlfriend, Lisbeta's-- arrival. Through the slats on the window looking down the corridor, a very tall, slender young woman walks past. She looks a lot older than teenaged, and she's wearing a simple soft pink dress. She's pale, like Machi, and she looks like the sort of plain-but-exotic and slightly fey face and body you'd see selling expensive designer women's clothing. I can understand why Parke was wanting her to not go down to the regular visitor's section or the secure room; here, she's kept away from the general population.  _Smart decision_ , I think, as I look back at my computer and return to work.

  
An alarm sounds later that afternoon, and I only hear about it afterwards, when a panting Parke appears in my office after his typical knock. He's sweating and he looks as though he's been hit; stress lines run across his face and he looks like he wants to punch something.

"You okay?" 

"I've just had to isolate Callander," he says gruffly. "I'm thinking about applying to have him transferred back to you-- you didn't have a problem with him, did you?"

"Nope," I tell him with a shrug. "He was a bit...  _odd_ , but was one of the easier ones. Doesn't want to talk about his offending, but that's okay, I guess, since he's got a snowball's chance in hell of getting out anyway."

Parke nods. "Despite the beatings and the stigmatisation," he says thoughtfully, "I think he actually likes it here. It's routine. He knows he can't  _do_  anything. People usually just leave him to his own devices."

"So what happened this time?"

"He doesn't like Dr. Smeer and he threatened him."

"People don't like me, and they've threatened me," I say with a dry smile. 

"Yeah, but you're able to handle it. Smeer's taken the day off now so we're down a psych." 

"I guess that's a few appointments held off until tomorrow," I say with a shrug.

Parke's face hardens. "I know there's no valentines between you and Dr. Smeer, but Callander needs... treatment."

"I told you about the drugs he's on--"

"Yes, but... someone's gonna get hurt. He's a livewire and he's getting worse; I think he's got paranoid delusions, Smeer thinks the same, and it's not pretty." He looks glum and thoughtful. "I'm gonna see if we can apply to have him moved somewhere for the... criminally insane-- maybe they'll be better off with him and he'll get the attention he needs." Parke's eyebrows narrow. "And... there are two people who'll talk to him, I've noticed-- one's Gold, who gets on with everyone, and the other-- when Tobaye isn't around-- is Gavin." He leans forward, trying to peer through the small window facing the unit behind me. "If he wasn't in iso right now, Gavin'd be chatting to him or Portsman. And... I just wonder if he's being set up somehow."

I shrug. "I'll try fitting him in this afternoon once he's settled," I suggest.

"Thankyou." 

I look at Parke, and suddenly realise that he's calming, his little bursts of breath have ceased. And then it dawns on me. "He didn't hit you, did he?" I ask.

"Nope," he says. "But I swear, when he's strip-searched, we're gonna find a shank on him. And that worries me, too."

When I try to send an email to upper-level management and the psych workers about Callander, my slow-as-usual computer seems to be especially uncooperative. There's a flash of a screen appearing for a split second, and I get an error message telling me that the system is offline. I call the IT department and make a note to myself to try later. 

My day is full of frustrations like this, and it's maybe forty five minutes later when I head down to the staffroom for my refuel session. According to Parke, old-timers told him the professional workers used to be allowed to have coffee machines in their offices. I resented the change in policy until I heard about the drug and alcohol worker who had a cup of boiling milk thrown in her face by an angry inmate. Today, though, I'm resenting it again; it's yet another disruption. 

  
When I get in, Waverley is sitting at the table, talking to Caster and a guy I've never seen before. 

"She didn't  _look_  seventeen," he says, and I raise an eyebrow, already aware of who he's talking about. 

Caster is listening leaning over the table and watching him, though looking curious rather than anything else.

"I didn't see her," he says with a shrug.

"Let's just say that it doesn't matter that she can't speak a word of English," Waverley says with a filthy smirk. "Tobaye asked me if she could bring in a cell phone for him; I nearly said, "Sure, kiddo, she can bring a phone in here... as long as she takes video." He chuckles and Caster raises an eyebrow though he doesn't dissuade him. "So you're saying getting visits for Tobaye is worth it?" 

Waverley grins. "I'm saying Parke made a wise decision this morning."

I frown, thinking exactly the opposite.

"Lucky you." 

"Oh, I mean, for the good of the kid, too," Waverley continues. "Tobaye ain't going prison gay if he's got that waiting on the outside."

There's a creak at the door.

"I'd better shut up in case  _Lily_  hears me," Waverley says, shooting me a snide glance and then leaning in to Caster. "But seriously? Tits most men would  _die for_." 

When the door opens, it's Denham, who looks like he's glad to be stepping off the floor. 

"I'm over this fucking court TV shit," he says to no one in particular. "And I'm on break; one of you guys can do Gavin's obs."

"I've still got five minutes," Caster says.

Waverley sighs. "I suppose I'll do 'em," he says with an exaggerated sigh. "After all-- hey-- I've already got better obs than most of us get here."

Denham raises an eyebrow. "The visit go well?"

"Tobaye's girlfriend's a  _stunner_." 

Denham laughs. "You've been in here too long if you start thinking that about the visitors."

Waverley flashes a smile at him. "If you knew what you were missing, gentlemen," he says with a smug grin, and gets up from his seat, leaving his half-empty coffee on the table. "I'll go watch the creep, but I want one of you to relieve me when you're back." 

I'm grateful when he leaves.

 

 

I'm watching my spoon in the coffee, making granules into brown liquid, when the duress alarm sounds.  _Another one_? 

The staffroom is empty; Caster returned to the floor, Denham presumably left the site. The shriek of the alarm has a property more energising than coffee-- the buzz of electric fear. 

I'm shocked at how quickly I'm up and out of the staffroom, staring onto the unit, trying to work out where the ruckus is coming from. Kitchen is empty, barring the inmates pressed against the window, transfixed by the sound of the alarm and looking out the window to see what's happening. TV room door is closed.

It's the telephone bay, and there's a crack in the reinforced glass on the bottom panel of the door, and that's where the screams are coming from. And there's a scuffle of workers, and the alarm is switched off, a radio call goes through saying that the threat is under control, and then there's a yell, clipped and sharp and dominant. "I'll walk."

And that's when I get the shock of my life; walking out from the phone room, visibly furious, red-faced, his hair an angry tangle of blonde wisps and his eyes blazing, comes Kristoph Gavin. Field, Caster and Waverley are behind him; Waverley looks red-faced and panicked as Parke did earlier. 

I hate to admit it, but my first thought is,  _I hope he hit Waverley_ hard.

 

  
I'm not sure when I started disliking Waverley enough to want to see him get hurt, but I can tell that somehow he had something to do with whatever happened. A door slams from the kitchen and I see Lily race out. I rush over towards them.

"What happened?" I ask.

Gavin tosses his head and says nothing. Lily looks furious, and then she notes the crack in the door. "What--?" she starts asking, and her face moves from the door to Gavin to Waverley. "Byrne's in the kitchen supervising," she explains in a rush. "What  _happened_?"

"Ask the man with the steel-capped boots," comes Gavin's furious and scarily controlled reply.

"Shut the fuck up," Waverley snarls, walking a bit closer to him than the others are.

"Settle," Gavin says nastily. "I told you I'd  _walk_."

"We've still got Callander in iso A," Field mutters, and Gavin starts walking to the left. His compliance, even in his obvious rage, is frightening. 

Parke emerges from upstairs and rushes down. 

"What the fuck happened here?" 

We've reached the door to the unoccupied isolation room, and Caster unlocks it. Gavin steps inside without a word, and the door is locked behind him. 

"Gavin became threatening and abusive in the phone room," Waverley says. Inside the room, Gavin is standing there, watching us. He's still clearly furious, and I can see the telltale scarring on his hand emerging like an angry, frightening bruise. Field and Caster notice it, too, and I see them exchange a look. Gavin runs his fingers through his hair, combing it out of his eyes.

"And you isolated him?"

"He threw a punch at me."

Parke looks stunned. "And  _missed_?" he asks. He sounds almost hopeful, and I manage to hide a smile. 

"I ducked out of the way," Waverley says, and he turns back to us. "He's fucking planning something, the sly prick-- I dunno what it is, but he was threatening to kill someone over the phone."

Lily's eyes widen, and Parke looks around. "This is the second duress we've had in a matter of hours," he says angrily. Without saying anything to the rest of us, he reaches for his radio and I know what he's going to say. "Lockdown."

 

  
Everyone scatters to return the rest of the unit to their rooms, and I'm waiting outside the isolation cell door. After all, it was my suggestion that Gavin remain on close observation. He's not even pacing; not even looking at me through the window. 

Down the end of the unit, the TV room door opens and the inmates start filing out, Field and Caster are performing a head count and moving them towards the general area. Behind them, I can see Matt Engarde's face, on the enormous screen at the back of the room, sobbing, his mouth moving though I can't hear what he's saying from where I'm standing. 

I turn back to Gavin as the kitchen is evacuated; he's looking down at the floor, calm now, his expression unreadable. I want to tap on the window and ask him to tell me what's happened, but he appears uncommunicative, lost in his own thoughts for the moment. Behind me is the bustle of bodies and Lily and Byrne doing the head count. And one thought is going through my mind:  _What the hell is going on?_  

  
"Right," Parke says angrily. He's pacing around the staffroom. "Today's been a fucking shambles, and I want to know, stat, what the recent bruhaha was in the phone room."

Seated, or standing around tables, we're all silently looking at him. 

"Waverley, since you were there--"

"Gavin stormed out of the TV room and demanded to use the phone."

"He stormed out?" Parke asks.

" _Yes_ ," Waverley hisses. "Most of them were in work duty, and the TV room door was left open so that the phone area was accessible.  _As it usually is."_ __

 __Parke nods. "I realise we do this," he says, his voice starting to change to a growl. "I don't have a problem with that when we have low numbers on the floor-- what I do have a problem with--"

"I followed Gavin," Waverley continues, "Because  _someone_ thinks he might off himself at any given chance because his boyfriend is gonna get fried."

No one says anything. The door opens, and back from his break comes Denham, with a fast food bag in one hand and a confused expression on his face. The sweet, warm, salty smell of hamburgers fills the staffroom. "Who's gonna get fried?" he asks. "And why's everyone on lockdown?"

"Gavin lost his shit," Field says.

Parke clears his throat. "We're just going over what happened."

I'm watching Waverley as he speaks; unlike Gavin's creepy and blunt rage, which he managed to mostly keep under wraps, Waverley is visibly stewing. 

"Can I continue?" Waverley snaps.

"Sure." Parke can see how angry he is, too. He doesn't look amused, however, he just looks unimpressed.

"Anyway, Gavin goes into the phone room; Rolla is in there, with his leg up against the wall, scratching his balls like he always does, talking to one of his girlfriends." Anyone would think that Waverley's enjoying the spotlight once again. "And Gavin presses a million numbers into the phone, and then very coldly, like how you imagine Behr, coldly, states that if whoever is on the other end--" He cuts himself off. "I didn't hear the rest of what he said," he says. "The thing was, Rolla starts laughing at something like a fucken maniac, and I missed what Gavin was saying. But he made some reference to "you know what I'm capable of" and said that he knew addresses and the legal system better than most people. And something about getting disbarred. 

"He was threatening the lawyer," Lily says, her voice coming out in something just above a whisper. "Engarde's lawyer." The room's turned silent and everyone's staring at her. "Oh my god."

This is the only time I've ever seen Waverley give serious consideration to something Lily's said. Instead of a disparaging remark, he nods. "That makes sense," he says slowly. "So he's planning to kill the lawyer."

"His brother?" Field asks, not quite understanding. "The prosecutor?"

"No," Waverley says. "Justice." Lily's suggestion has become a reality for him.

 

I glance up at Parke and notice the way he looks even more stressed. And then I realise something: Waverley is probably telling the truth. I think about Gavin making that phone call to Parke with his knowledge of the phone system from Moreau. And then something else occurs to me.

 _Parke never formally reported it._ The question of _why?_  lingers in my mind: what did he have to gain from keeping Gavin's ability to breach security a secret?

And the look on Parke's face seems to confirm as much, too; there's a new wave of panic rippling across his features. In that moment, I feel sorry for him; amongst his return and the drama surrounding the Engarde mess, he's neglected to document or mention that phone call. And now Gavin's used his skill to contact Apollo Justice. 

And threaten him. 

A murmur runs through the room, and Waverley realises his thunder has been stolen. "Anyway," he says, "I asked Gavin what he was doing, and moved towards him and--" He's building up the tension-- "WHAM! He tries to hit me. And seriously, I can see how he made such a mess of Wellington; the bastard's got a mean right hook on him."

"How did the window get broken?" Lily asks. 

"When I swung out of the way, my foot hit it." He shrugs. "Shit happens."

And Parke gets a look of calm on his face then; he's strangely relieved. Something about Waverley's story seems too...  _organised_ , and Parke, like me, has realised why: Waverley's lying about something too. 

"We'll have a talk to Gavin, then," he says calmly. "Unit's still on lockdown-- Waverley-- I need you to draft up a report; Lily, I need you to keep obs on Gavin-- if he tells you anything, I want it noted down-- and the rest of us-- well, I don't know about you guys, but I could do with a cigarette."

There's a relieved sigh amongst everyone, and we begin our descent out of the staffroom. When we're out of the airlock and the usual smoking spots have been taken, I continue walking past everyone, aware of what's really going on. Parke taps me on the shoulder when we're a distance from everyone else, and when I turn around, he's grinning at me like he's won the lottery.

"There's video footage of this somewhere," he tells me in an excited undertone. "I know there's black spots all over the place, but Waverley can't have possibly  _not_  been seen doing whatever he was doing in there," he says. "He kicked that door. He was threatening Gavin-- the desk jockeys would have seen someth--"

I can't help but look at his excitement, stony-faced and troubled. "You didn't report the illegal phone call he made to you, did you?"

Taken aback, Parke looks like I've slapped him. "I should have," he says quickly. "But-- I fucked up. There was so much going on and..." And the way his eyes shift and the way he seems so desperate to change the subject tells me one thing: he was caught off-guard when I asked that question.

And he's lying to me.


	30. Slight Return

"Right-- let's get him out."

  
Julien Callander eyes us suspiciously. Parke's back in his office, writing up an incident report, Waverley's in the communications office typing up a report about Gavin's isolation, and Field, Lily, Caster and I are tentatively standing by the door of the isolation cell.  
  
"Are you settled?" Caster asks, unimpressed.   
  
You can tell by looking at Callander that he isn't. That he looks as though he's trying to calm himself enough to convince everyone that he's fine, not because he is, but because he wants to get out of the confines of isolation. He shakes as he stutters out "Y-yes."   
  
"We need to talk about what happened earlier," Field tells him. "You know this isn't how we do things around here."   
  
I like that Field manages to work with his fear and reassure him; Callander disgusts everyone, but Field has the professionalism to not show it right now. Even though he probably doesn't want the title of Worker With Rapport With Callander.   
  
"I-I'm sorry about Parke," Callander says, and he's twitching fearfully. It's like listening to a small child who's just been terrified. Lily taps Field on the shoulder, pulling on his shirt slightly, drawing him back.  
  
It's then that it occurs to me that with the three of them standing there, and the door partially opened, Callander is more scared of us than we are of him.  
  
Field steps back and looks at her. "I-- had something I needed to ask you," she says diplomatically, and I cringe to myself; Waverley undermining her during his reign of management has made her play the diplomat a lot more. It doesn't suit her.   
  
"What are you talking about?" Callander gingerly steps towards us. "Look," he continues, "I'm not gonna hurt anyone, okay-- I just--  _lost it_  before." His eyes are huge and fearful. "No one believes me," he says. "About _anything_. Dr. Smeer is going to make me have things happen to me. No one believes me--"  
  
Field nods thoughtfully and then looks at me.  _Great._  "Would you rather talk to Doctor--"  
  
"No!" Callander looks disgusted. "You're all the same, they're the same, no one listens--"

  
His voice is rising, and I see Caster and Lily exchange a look. Callander isn't coming out any time soon, and he realises it when they do. He howls as the door is closed in front of him, and then races towards it, smashing a fist into the painted steel, a couple of inches of door and air stopping anyone get hurt.  
  
"I wanna talk to Parke!" he yells.   
  
"Not likely while you're like this," Caster says.  
  
"I wanna say sorrrryyyy."  
  
  
  
Gavin is the exact opposite; he's peaceful when we reach his cell, sitting in the middle of the room, cross-legged as though he's been meditating. It's frightfully similar to when I first  _really_  talked to him, after the weird exchanges about him from staff to one another, after his pleasant silence, after my wondering if he could have possibly been innocent given his perfect temperment-- and after his bloodied fingerprints had lined the walls following his assaulting Wellington.  
  
That was long before I learned that there was a reason behind it.  
  
But it was similar, in the sense that it was a startling reminder that Gavin could in fact resort to physical violence if he felt the need to. This time no one had even been hurt; but Waverley had  _nearly_  been assaulted-- video evidence pending for confirmation, of course; but something had shifted in regards to the perception of him. Violence was an indication that he was just as crazy as anyone else, and just as liable to snap.  
  
Without thinking about it, I knock on the door. In case he's meditating, just so he's warned of an impending interruption. Lily gives me an odd look, as if to tell me "He knows we're here."  
  
He looks up. His face is unrippled and indifferent; he's made an effort to tame his hair even though the strands dangling in front of his face and away from the twist suggest that he isn't quite as settled as he could be.   
  
Lily unlocks the door, and he stands up. "I'm perfectly calm," he says in monotone. "I've thought about my conduct and apologise-- I would like to state that I pose no further threat to anyone else in this facility and--"

It seems that Waverley has finished his report and appeared behind us, and that unlike Gavin,  _he_  hasn't calmed down.  
  
"Nice try, shithead," he snarls. "Tell the doc and the girl that you're safe, get a sympathetic ear to say everything's roses while you're planning on--"  
  
Gavin's voice cracks slightly. Like Lily and I, he hadn't expected to see Waverley. "Waverley--" he says, blinking. "I wasn't aware that you'd be visiting me so soon." He smiles sweetly, which only seems to further incense Waverley, who steps towards him. "I actually believed that it was prison policy for staff involved in assaults to maintain their distance from the offending inmate immediately afterwards lest tempers flare up again."  
  
I look down at his hand; the scar has faded once more.   
  
Waverley turns to Lily. "Cease the obs," he snaps, "Note it's a temporary; he's getting searched and returned to his room. And I'll give the rest of them the chance to thank him for having the unit locked down."  
  
An eyebrow twitch from Gavin, who folds his arms and glares at Waverley. "I don't believe you have the right to strip search me," he says, and then looks at me. "Or to cease my observations."  
  
I nod without meaning to, and Waverley looks at me. "I have reasonable grounds to believe he's harbouring contraband."   
  
"I have no reason to believe that's the case, Waverley," Gavin replies. "I tried to _push_ you out of the way-- at no time did I attempt to assault you with a weapon."  
  
"Your fist is a weapon," Waverley growls. And that's when I see a glimmer of amusement in Gavin's face; the muscles in his cheeks swell slightly as though he's resisting the urge to chuckle. He's having fun.  
  
"My fists aren't contraband," he says. "And you were interrupting me while I was trying to use the telephone."  
  
"I can interrupt you while you're trying to  _take a shit_ , Gavin. This is  _prison_."  
  
"That it is." Now he's actually smiling at him, which only serves to further enrage Waverley. "But that doesn't mean that you get to strip search me."  
  
It's such a minor point of contention: strip searches are commonplace. But I think I know what Gavin's doing: he's holding onto one thing that he knows Waverley wants and which he knows he can debate.   
  
"I have grounds because you were violent and threatening, and I have reason to believe that you were planning criminal activities outside the prison."  
  
And then the laugh breaks forth. A dry, slight chuckle, and Waverley's face reddens even more. "Criminal activities?" he asks. "Why ever would you suspect such a thing?"  
  
"I heard you threatening someone," Waverley snaps. "On the end of the phone."  
  
"I may have been holding the telephone handset and talking, but that doesn't mean I was having a conversation with anyone."  
  
"I can check the records," Waverley snaps. "I don't know who you were threatening, though some of my  _esteemed_  colleagues have their theories-- but that's easily enough checked when I get the records--"  
  
"Get them, then. I can assure you I made no such call." He looks at me, and then at Lily. "I would like to apologise for any inconvenience I may have caused you," he says calmly. "I understand, Ms. Dale, that you have been standing here for--"  
  
"Shut the fuck up," Waverley growls. "If you're just wanting to antagonise us, you can stay here until you're ready for your search."  
  
Gavin shrugs. "Very well then," he says. "I have no rush to return to the unit."  
  
" _Fine_." And before Lily and I can jump back too far, the door is slammed again, and locked. 

 

 

"If he wants to play the smartass with us, he can stay there until Parke's ready to talk to him," Waverley snarls, stomping off towards the staffroom. "I don't have time for this shit."   
  
  
When he gets into the staffroom, I follow. It's not that I want to be around him, it's that I need more coffee to fuel me on the drive home. I open the recently-slammed door and look around tentatively. Waverley's sitting at the table, stewing to himself.   
  
I avoid his eyes and start making myself a coffee.

"You like him, don't you, doc?"  
  
I wish he wasn't talking to me; I've never known how to do more than make vaguely polite conversation with him before, and he's never asked for my professional opinion on anything. I've always felt like Waverley has had no faith in my entire science; I'm just some bleeding heart who gets paid more than he does to hear sob stories and write prescriptions and undermine his attempts at instilling discipline in them, because I'm willing to look for legitimate psychological problems they might have.  
  
I don't turn around, though I know who he's talking about. "Gavin?" I ask.  
  
" _Yes_ ," he growls.  
  
"I suppose he's one of my more challenging and intriguing clients." I fill my mug and turn around. "Why do you ask?"  
  
"You  _believe_  him, don't you?"   
  
"All I have is your word against his," I say tactfully. "I haven't seen anything of the situation myself, though Gavin did seem calm when he was talking to us."  
  
" _Calm_?" Waverley doesn't sound calm now. He sounds furious. "This is the guy who was  _calmly_  telling you about how he was molesting his younger brother. This is the guy who was calmly discussing Engarde's health issues with the emergency workers who pulled him out of their cell after he'd fallen unconscious. That prick has no emotions: he could remain calm after doing a deal with the prince of darkness hismelf. Anyone'd think that guy eats Valium for breakfast-- and he probably  _does_. He's probably blowing Callander for his meds, the sick fuck."   
  
"I assure you that Callander isn't taking Valium," I tell him quietly. "If he was, I'd have seen that on his case file."  
  
And his scowl grows darker, and that's when I become acutely aware of something: I can appreciate the amusement Gavin derives from winding up Waverley. It's sick. It's wrong. It goes against everything I am supposed to be doing. But it's almost perfect, watching him rage and flounder and attempt control while he has none.   
  
"Good point," he snaps. "But that prick maintains calm no matter what he's up against. Calm is him lying through his teeth."  
  
 _But I'm being_ calm _right now, Waverley_.  
  


 

"Perhaps not," I say casually. "He was found guilty because the scarring on his hand flashed during the Misham trial--"  
  
"I  _saw_  that scarring before he took a swing at me," he says.   
  
"I didn't see it when he was in isolation."  
  


 

And that's it:  _perfect calm_.   
  


 

"Neither did I," he says quickly.  
  
"Which leads me to believe that he may have been telling the truth."   
  
There's a silence and he realises what's just happened.   
  
"So you  _do_  believe him?"  
  
"I'm not saying--"  
  
"He was  _threatening_  someone on the phone," he snaps, his voice rising. He slurps down the last of his coffee, while I look longingly at my own untouched mug. "I  _heard_  it. And I  _saw_  him press a million numbers into the phone; he's doing  _something_  in there and--"  
  
The door opens, and a grave-faced Parke comes in. "Just the two people I want to see," he says. "Doc-- I've scheduled Gavin in for an appointment tomorrow morning to discuss what happened this afternoon and his anger management--" I nod-- "and Waverley-- if we could head up to my office, please."  
  
And that's when it happens. Waverley's anger hasn't been interrupted by Parke's arrival; it's just inflated. " _You_  believe him,  _too_ , don't you?" he growls. "You've fallen for his bullshit, too, _haven't you_?"   
  
"I just want to talk about--"  
  
"What's he  _said_?" Waverley's voice is growing even louder, to something just below a yell. "He's been  _fucking with us_ , Parke."  
  
"I just wanted to--"  
  
"You're all fucking  _puppets_!" And that's when Waverley's fist smashes against the dining table, causing it to rattle, its feet thud-thud-thudding against the floor. Parke looks stunned.  
  
"This idiot is fucking with the both of you clowns," he roars. " _You're_ \--" he points at me, accusing, like an enraged lawyer who's just spotted faulty evidence-- "just wanting to believe you can  _fix_  him or  _save_ him-- you miss out on most of the crazy that happens with him day-to-day-- and  _you're_ \--" he points at Parke-- "just glad that he's not causing  _you_  more paperwork so you can strut around and say you've got control of this place!"

  
Parke opens his mouth. I'm not sure whether I should take my coffee and leave, or whether I should stay and watch what eventuates. And I'm frozen to the spot and I can't move, even if I want to.  
  
"I actually have spent the last two hours writing reports," Parke says, with an angry quiet, "All I'm doing is trying to find the tru--"  
  
"The  _truth_?" Waverley's fists are balled and he steps towards Parke. "I'll tell you the  _truth_ , buddy: the  _truth_  is that I've spent twenty-two years in law enforcement or security, and I can spot a godammned liar a mile away! You're all being lied to! You don't give an asshole like this guy the benefit of the doubt because he says he's telling the truth: you watch your back and work out how to work around him before he starts convincing everyone else that he's actually an honest, decent person."  
  
Parke steps back.  
  
"Go home, Waverley," he says gently. There's a slight quiver in his voice; he's frightened. But he's determined not to show it, to try and maintain control of a situation which has gone well past control for Waverley.  
  
"Just take a couple of days off, recharge the batteries, chill out--"  
  
Waverley eyes me and paces towards me angrily. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?" he snarls. "You get off on this shit,  _don't you_?" He steps towards me and I instinctively shift backwards. I'm hoping my face doesn't suggest I'm amused, because now, Waverley's fear-inspiring behaviour is working, and I'm scared. I want to channel Gavin's perfectly unaffected poker face.  
  
"Because you look at me, and you think, "Look-- it's Waverley, the unevolved fucking  _moron_ , that blue-collar jackass with no fucking fancy-schmancy degree and you think I'm fucking stupid, don't you? Because I don't play all your faggoty little mindgames and try to  _understand_  these dicks, I just do what needs getting done."  
  
"I don't--"  
  
No. I think he's teetering close to the edge of burning out. And that someone might get hurt as a result of it. And that both Parke and I are in the line of fire.   
  
"All I ask for here is a little bit of  _respect_." The fist hits the tabletop again, only I can't hear the rumble of the table's feet on the floor over his yelling-- "I was a  _cop_ \--" he starts up again-- "For fifteen years I was sniffing the truth out from these pieces of shit, and now you take me for an idiot and believe them over--"  
  
"Waverley," Parke says gently. He looks across at me and then back to Waverley-- "We need to talk-- somewhere els--"  
  
For some reason, that disables the rant for a few moments. Which is long enough for me to put my coffee cup down on the edge of the sink, and gingerly leave the room.   
  


  
  
On the way home, amongst traffic, I crank up the radio, and I think about everything that's happened over the course of the day. I think about Gavin, demurely furious, conniving and manipulative and clever, I think about Waverley and his explosion, about the telephone call which I already know won't show up on any records and Matt Engarde's impending verdict-- tomorrow's the last day of his trial-- and about Crescend and Tobaye and his girlfriend, and the damaged and scattered Callander.   
  
And then I think about what I'm going home to: a phone call from Anna, hopefully, where we can iron out the details of her impending visit.   
  
I say that this job has ruined my life sometimes, I feel like it's corroded it-- but in some ways, the Crescends and the Waverleys-- and even the Gavins-- have become my life every bit as much as Anna is. It was my job which pulled me through and allowed me to feel normal and settled after the divorce. It has given me something to wake up for on occasions.  
  
And then I'm back to thinking about Waverley and his meltdown in the staffroom: was the weight of worrying about the footage on the camera making him scattered and frantic, or was his behaviour like a cancer borne from years of not looking after himself very well and stress? 

  
I think of my cruel amusement at his failure to hold it together and I hate myself a bit. And then I think about the fact that one day, it could be me doing the same thing.  
  


 

  
The song on the radio is cut through by radio bleeps for the eight o'clock nightly news; I tune out then and relax, too lazy to change the station in search of more easy listening chart-busting hits.  
  
I turn the radio up when I'm less than a mile from my place; it's an instinctive reaction when the name "Matt Engarde" is mentioned. In less than a second, I'm wondering if a verdict has been reached regarding the accusations of him soliciting assistance from interstate to bring drugs into the prison. And I think to myself: no matter how bad my life is, at least I don't have the death penalty hanging over my head.  
  
  
Though it appears that he may not, either. The two line update on his case from the bright-voiced woman on the radio states that there's been a dramatic change in matters.  
  
Apparently Apollo Justice, Engarde's legal representation, has cited personal circumstances as his reason for no longer being able to represent Mr. Engarde. Gordon Phair, a fledgling defence attorney already starting to make a name for himself taking on famous yet unprofitable cases, has picked up Engarde's. Mr. Justice was unavailable for comment.  
  
I think I'm beginning to understand Kristoph Gavin's calm this afternoon. And maybe Waverley was right: maybe he  _was_  lying and manipulating all of us.  
  
But in this instance, I'm glad it worked.

 

 

 

Anna's coming over.  
  
I'm picking her up from the airport in a matter of days: well, a week and a half which is days if you look at it that way, and then, for a week, she's living with me.  
  
And she's excited and I am; she's my innocence, my light at the end of the tunnel.   
  
I already feel like things are about to get worse, and all I can do is concentrate, desperate and damaged, on Anna's impending arrival.  
  
  
  


  
The first thing we get in the morning, while the unit is still on lockdown, is a meeting: three major points of discussion from a stressed and slightly hungover-looking Parke whose appearance suggests he's missing his extendable holidays.  
  
"I regret to inform you all," he says, "that Glenn Waverley is having some time off for a fortnight."  
  
No one says anything. There are no whoops, no murmurs, no scowls at Parke; nothing. And I suspect this is because of one simple reason: everyone already  _knows_ : prison gossip travels like gas: invisible and undetectable, but fast-moving and deadly in some cases.   
  
I notice the new guy who I'd seen yesterday, and he leans forward, watching Parke's every movement. "Who's he?" he asks. He reeks of being a clueless newbie, someone who won't be with us for very long; a hapless sweet kid fresh out of university and from a quieter unit.   
  
"Short guy. Moustache. Tells it like it is." Towne sounds blunt but neutral, and I wonder what he's thinking about the situation. Is his neutrality a display of professionalism because he doesn't want to be seen as a friend or an enemy of Waverley, or does he genuinely not give a fuck?  
  
"Ahh," is all the new guys says.   
  
Parke decides to cease any further discussion of Waverley and his departure. "Thing number two is that as we're all aware, Julien Callander is escalating rapidly; he's now been upped to a Category Two, he's required to remain on constant observations, and we want two staff with him at all times."  
  
No one questions this, either.  
  
"And if he can't function on the floor, he's to be moved to solitary and observed there," he continues. "He's stated that there is a bladed implement on the unit which he plans to get into his possession and that he will kill others if he feels threatened."  
  
"Why wasn't he on obs already?" asks Caster.  
  
"Because a search of the unit, and that wanded search we did on everyone yesterday has revealed absolutely no bladed  _anythings_  on the entire unit. He may be trying to sound like he knows more than anyone else in an attempt to look threatening..." He pauses for a bit. "We all know Callander's harmless, and he's lowest on the pecking order around here; that incident with Tobaye only cemented that. He's wanting to build up some reputation. And perhaps he's going the insanity offense."  
  
"What's that?" asks the new guy.  
  
"When they pretend to be more nuts than they are so everyone else keeps their distance." Another pause and a thoughtful look from Parke. "Not that you can get much crazier than he already is." He rolls his eyes.  "The  _third_  issue we have arising is... outside information."  
  
 _Then_  the murmur ripples through the rest of the room.   
  
"I heard Engarde plea-bargained--"  
  
"No, he's done for; Justice knew he couldn't win--"  
  
"Gordon Phair is just a kid who likes being controversial--"  
  
"...As you all  _know_ ," Parke continues, clearing his throat, "--As we've _all_ been watching for the last few days, Matt Engarde is facing extradition interstate if he's found guilty for getting the drugs sent in which killed Plan."  
  
More murmurs.  
  
"Anyway," he says, "Either way, at the end of the day, something's gonna happen. Behind door number one, we have Engarde getting sent interstate and that'll be the last we ever see of him, and essentially he's out of our hands--" And the way he says it, I know that's what he believes is going to happen, but Towne interrupts him. 

  
"What if we get him back?"   
  
"We get him back, then," Parke says. "Which is what I was alluding to--"  
  
"What about--  _Gavin_?"  
  
Parke sighs. "Either way," he says, "Whatever happens to Engarde is going to shift the unit dynamic here. If we get him back, well, we all know how that goes: we have everyone else on the unit threatening him and despising him-- it's just a regular day at the office. But... if he gets sent interstate--"  _Which is what you're counting on_ , I think-- "we're gonna have a whole new caseload of drama."  
  
"Why?" the new guy asks.  
  
"Things will change," Towne says-- "with the lack of a unit... to put it crudely--  _cum dumpster_ \--"  
  
"Engarde hasn't been that for a long time," Lily says with disgust. "The moment Gavin started messing around with him, he'd stopped--"  
  
"He was still interacting with Plan, though," someone says as though that's an explanation.  
  
Parke raises his eyebrows at the new worker, leaving the discussion around him. "You see what can happen around here?" he asks with a smile and a sigh. "We haven't even got the guy back-- and we probably won't-- and already everyone's expecting something different."  
  
The news guy nods silently.   
  
"If Engarde does come back," he says, "He's on obs."  
  
Everyone nods to that.   
  
"If he doesn't come back, I want Gavin on constants, and I want two staff around him at all times. I'm waiting for an explosion of some kind, for him to snap and lose it, and he's been under stress this week anyway."  
  
"Why... Gavin?" the new guys asks. "What's he got to do with anything?"  
  
"You don't wanna know," Parke says, visibly irritated. "It's a story more twisted and disturbing than the latest season of  _Hollywood Vampires_."   
  
A chuckle circulates the room, and Parke turns to the new guy. "Have a flip through his files if you really want to know." He turns back to the rest of us. "Another thing," he adds, and there's something suggesting nervousness in his voice, "Look-- we've been hearing stories for weeks now about a bladed weapon on the unit, we've searched and wanded everything, and nothing's come up-- but..." His eyes make their way across the room from one worker to another-- "let's be careful, guys-- we've got a lot of raised tensions and potential drama waiting to happen." Everyone nods and there's that mumble of understanding happening throughout the room.   
  
"Let's look out for one another, okay?"  
  
The way he says it, he's almost pleading. I wonder if it has anything to do with Waverley.

 

 

* * *

  
  


  
"Got a job for you," Parke tells me when I'm back in the office.  
  
"Yeah?" I raise my eyebrows and look up from my computer screen. I'm due to see Portsman about his anxiety in a couple of hours. A proposal has been made to shift him off the unit and back into Protective. I get the feeling that it isn't going to happen.  
  
"I just received a call," he tells me, his voice grim. It's a call about us getting a new admission or transfer. Or a return.  
  
"Engarde?" I ask. It's automatic. The media attention has been enormous and he's flavour of the week here.  
  
"No," Parke says. "Moreau."  
  
"Moreau?  _Tom_  Moreau?"  
  
"The one and only."  
  
"He was released--" As the words leave my mouth, I realise what's happened.  
  
"He breached his parole conditions," Parke says. "He was found tampering with the computer system at his new workplace," he says. "The guy was trying to hack a number of systems-- including  _ours_."  
  
"Wonderful."  
  
"Remember the network outage a while ago or whenever it was?" he asks ominously. "They  _still_  don't know  _what_  he's accessed."  
  
I just look at him blankly. I hope we never find out.   
  
"We're expecting him back here in a couple of hours."   
  
I swear under my breath, and Parke brightens.  
  
"You remember him from last time," he says. "He wasn't at all suited to this type of environment, was he?" He clears his throat. "I was thinking perhaps with intensive supervision and appropriate treatment, he'd be more suited to a minimum security setting."  
  
I eye him suspiciously. "This wouldn't have anything to do with his telephony skills, would it?"   
  
"Sort of," Parke says gingerly. "He's a sitting duck if people find out about the free private phone calls-- and he's going to cause us more problems. God knows what these guys will do once they find out about that."  
  
"Did the phones get fixed?" I ask.   
  
"Well--"   
  
I freeze when I realise what Parke's implying.   
  
"You didn't disclose the situation with Gavin calling you, did you?"  
  
"No," he says. "I never got around to it."   
  
He's lying again. And it's easy to see why: his not saying anything has lead to Waverley's time off.   
  
"Would  _you_  have said anything?" he asks me slowly. "Given what's happened...?"  
  
I think about all the things I haven't said anything about, about Gavin touching me, about the kiss, about the little suggestions of corruption which I can only call allegations.   
  
"That phone call may have resulted in a man receiving justice, and another being justifiably scrutinised for his actions," he says.   
  
"So the ends justifies the means?"   
  
Parke looks frustrated.   
  
"Listen," he says. "Sometimes you have to fight for justice, and in a less-than-by-the-rules manner." His face is tense; he doesn't look pleased. "I have further suspicions about Waverley, too, things that the man's gotten away with due to knowing about a few loopholes in the system."

  
I raise my eyebrows again at him. I'm glad the door's closed and my office is soundproof-- I like Parke. Parke is fair. And this conversation is making me feel awkwardly uncomfortable. "Phoenix Wright did the same thing to catch Gavin out with that card, didn't he?"  
  
I remember reading about it in the case file. "There's always a way to bring people to justice using official means," I offer helplessly, until I find myself thinking about Klavier Gavin and Apollo Justice and Matt Engarde. My voice is weakening. "You need to report the phone call information, Parke."  
  
He sighs, and his voice grows softer. "It wasn't even like Gavin threatened me or did anything underhanded," he says. "He even apologised for bothering me-- he just wanted me to know what Waverley was doing here."  
  
"Did he tell you... anything else?"   
  
"No," he says. "But I think he's scared. And things aren't adding up with Waverley, either; I'm wondering about the supposed self-injury Engarde left isolation with awhile ago, and one of the nurses tells me that Gavin's obs seem to neglect to mention that he was  _moved_. She was going over records and she seemed  _bothered_  by it."  
  
"When was that?"  
  
"When he was in hospital after the time Klavier assaulted him at the Variety Show."  
  
I give Parke a dark look. "You're not suggesting Waverley..."  
  
"I'm not suggesting anything," Parke says tightky. "Except that the facts don't add up."  
  
I change the subject. "Well have you seen the video from the Gavin incident yet?"  
  
"I'm on my way to doing that now. And if there _is_ something suggesting he's tampering with the phones, I need to work out what I'm going to do."   
  
I nod to him. And the fear on his face makes me wonder something else.  
  
"You're not worried you're going to get fired, are you?" I ask.  
  
"I'm worried deNong isn't going to view me too fondly once he finds out. It could be viewed as conspiracy."  
  
"Did you  _give_  Gavin your phone number?" I ask.  
  
"Hell no-- he has access to a phone book, easily."  
  
"Then you have nothing to worry about." I nod. "You should be all right," I tell him with a smile which doesn't entirely convincew myself.   
  
He gives me a look of relief and then backs towards the door. "You still doing that report, though?"  
  
"Yeah. I don't think Moreau belongs back here, either. Let's get him sent elsewhere."

 

 

 

My afternoon's plans have gone awry. Moreau is admitted, and he's teary and shaking. First up on the plans is to have him shuffled into a room-- Gavin and Portsman are together so Moreau is moved in with Tobaye-- the rationale behind that being that hopefully they won't communicate or annoy one another too much-- and then Moreau is sent to me for an assessment.  
  
"I'm not going to cope, this time," he says, shaking in his seat.   
  
"Why do you feel this way?" I ask gently. Do I tell him about the report I was drafting, about him hopefully being moved elsewhere? No. It would only give him false hope. And my dealings with Crescend have made me scared of doing that.  
  
"I remember what it was like last time," he says. "I didn't mean to get caught-- I swear-- I just thought I'd have a look at what was on the computer and..."   
  
"Old habits die hard?" I ask him.  
  
He nods silently, and he's still shaking. A sniffle bubbles from him, and I slide the box of tissues across my desk in his direction. "Thankyou," he murmurs, snatching one.  
  
"I know everyone's busy watching TV," he says with a shrug. "But what happens when that's over? I'm... new. I'm... harmless. I'm gonna get bashed."  
  
He looks around him, terrified, like he's scared someone's about to pop out of the walls. "I'm sharing with a psychotic Borginian kid who beat the shit out of Callander, apparently," he says. "Christ knows I'll be next--"  
  
"Mr. Moreau," I say quietly. "At the moment tensions are high on the unit and we have a number of inmates on observations-- would you feel safer if _you_ were placed on them?"  
  
He snorts, his face still red and worried. A sardonic smile flashes. "You have to be joking, right?" he asks. "Obs aren't gonna do anything for me." And then he looks hopeful. "Can I get some meds, instead?"  
  
It's typically socially-inept drug-seeking behaviour. He’s smart enough to plan things, but he lacks the ability to realise that I’m smart enough to have seen through it and to have been asked a thousand times before.  
  
I sigh. "If I thought I could offer a pill which would make it all better, I would," I tell him earnestly. "But I don't think that's going to help you..." I trail off, and reach into my desk, slipping him a pamphlet about the meditation group. "Perhaps this could be beneficial for you," I suggest. "It could pass the time in a settled setting, if not anything else."  
  
He nods sadly, and stares at me, resigned. "I can't believe I fucked up again," he says quietly.  
  
I nod. "What happened to the electrical interest?"  
  
"I guess the computers won out in the end." He shrugs, and then looks curious. "Did Parke ever get the electrical flaw fixed with the GERA system?"  
  
I don't know. That sort of faded away into nothing amongst Waverley's rule.   
  
"I think it's all sorted out now," I tell him. I offer him a weak smile and he stands up.   
  
"I'd better get going," he tells me. "I don't want to spend too much time here; they'll think I'm hiding behind you or something."  
  
I nod, and radio up for him to be returned. When Lily arrives at the door, she's looking as though she's making an effort to keep a stoic expression on her face. Moreau toddles over to her like a lost puppy.   
  
"Go online," she hisses to me, and I can't tell if she's pleased, or horrified. "Check the news."

 

 

All I need do is type “Engarde” into a search engine, and dozens of news stories appears. It seems that the shock-jock young-and-confident lawyer, Gordon Phair, has won his first case.

 

Engarde has been acquitted. Video footage, surprisingly accessible from the prison’s computer network, shows him leaving in his orange jumpsuit, smiling shyly like a kid who’s just been invited out on a date. He looks relieved; his eyes glisten as though he’s been crying. There is footage of him shaking hands with Phair, a striking young man in an Ivy U kind of cleancut way—before he’s loaded into the back of the prison escort van. A newsreader states over the footage that Engarde is already serving a life sentence for the murder of Juan Corrida anyway, and that he’ll be returned to prison.  
  
Another article shows photographs; there’s Engarde as he appeared in court, and then a photo of him in a vinyl racing jacket from his glory days as a famed actor, baby-faced and quite attractive. At this stage, the scars on his face were hidden by his fringe, dangling over one side of his face. I vaguely remember that Engarde.  
  
I glance at the photos for a moment, slightly amused by the fact that before that photo was taken, Matt Engarde was apparently a famed actor in another capacity. There’s no mention of _that_  however.  
  
I read through the article, which is longer and more concerned with the details of the court case than the five-second news video was. The article goes into details of the trial, describing circumstances around Engarde; there’s the dismissal of Apollo Justice, there’s Gordon Phair apparently picking up his case _pro bono_ , and there’s—

 

My hand comes to my mouth and I swear behind it when I see the first one-liner which stuns me. Maybe what’s happened _is_ justice, and I think of the conversation Parke and I had earlier. _The end justifies the means…_ That logic was what Apollo and Klavier were attempting to do.

 

 _Attempting to_ is the term, though. One line at the end of the article tells me what’s happened to the lawyers involved: Klavier has been suspended for not disclosing a conflict of interests, Apollo Justice is currently under investigation and is likely to face a panel deciding his fate later in the week.

 

The second thing which makes me gasp is a mention of the card; the mystery is finally solved.

 

It’s not in the body of the article, it’s a link to the side of it, something I click on as opposed to the link about Justice’s investigation. _Pink Card Haunts Engarde_ – the title alone is intriguing enough to click on, and the resulting article answers questions which have been skirted around and avoided for weeks.   
  
One of the reasons Engarde was acquitted was that it became apparent—according to witnesses and to Engarde himself—that a pink card showed up around the same time as the drugs did on the unit. Phair somehow convinced the jury that the card may have shown up _with_ the drugs. Engarde’s history involving pink cards was discussed, and Engarde had testified that he wanted nothing to do with anyone who left pink, shell-embellished cards anywhere, as he had no desire to see the man he’d outed as Shelly de Killer ever again. Phair successfully convinced everyone that on such flimsy evidence implicating Engarde, and with the idea of the drugs coming in via Shelly de Killer not being entirely ruled out, it was _well_  beyond reasonable doubt that Engarde engineered the drugs appearing on the unit. An autopsy suggested that Plan had concealed drugs in his body anyway, and that the overdose was due to the rupture of one unit of them. In short, Plan’s death was ruled as an overdose, and misadventure, rather than murder.  

Engarde was in the clear, but the appearance of the pink card suggested that Shelly de Killer was still at large, and according to another link in the sidebar, a nation-wide manhunt was underway for the famed assassin who’d been believed to be dead or in retirement.

 

 

* * *

  
  


The staffroom is abuzz with discussion when I walk in, and the TV is on, showing, predictably _Courtroom 24/7_.  
  
“So Engarde lives to see another day,” Denham says in disbelief. “I actually agree with Waverley on that one; the guy’s like a fucken cockroach. He just doesn’t die.”  
  
Lily’s looking at the screen, thoughtful. “Everyone out there’s wound up about it,” she says. “We’ve got Wellington talking about how he’s a dead man when he gets back, Tobaye’s using his limited English to talk about what a piece of shit the guy is, Tigre’s—“  
  
“What?” Towne asks, looking up from his coffee. “I’ve been in the kitchen all morning and dealing with the comms office— _Tobaye_  hates the guy? Tobaye doesn’t even know him.”  
  
“Tobaye is following Gavin around like a lost puppy,” Lily says darkly. “He’s like an obsessed _fan._ He’s even applied to be moved from mop duty to the morgue.”  
  
“Oh _great_.” Towne looks aghast. “That’s _just_ what we need.”  
  
“He’s not going,” Denham says. “Hamm already told him—actually, I heard that the pool maintenance crew needs a boost; they’ll likely shift him there if he goes anywhere.”  
  
“I wonder how Gavin will take to Engarde returning?” Towne asks.  
  
“Since he was the one who engineered the whole thing…” Lily says.  
  
“Bullshit.” Denham puts his coffee mug down on the table. “That’s just Gavin making out that he’s got more control over things than what he really does. That lawyer abandoned Engarde because he realised people were aware he was screwing the prosecutor.”  
  
“I still think that Gavin engineered that one.”  
  
“So you’re agreeing with Waverley?” Towne’s incredulous. “When are we gonna see other signs of the apocalypse?”  
  
Lily falls silent, and the room becomes aware that the conversation has shifted.  
  
“Is Waverley in the clear?” Denham asks randomly. “Has anyone seen the video yet?”  
  
“Parke was watching it, apparently.” I regret saying it, but it just sort of slips out. Suddenly everyone’s looking at me, and I wonder what they’re thinking, if they’re aware of my feelings about Waverley or if I’ve remained perfectly neutral.  
  
“Wonder what happened,” Towne says awkwardly. “Guess we’ll find out, hey?”

 

 

 

Parke appears in my office once I’m back there, revising Tigre’s transfer papers and Crescend’s parole report.  
  
“Guess what?” he asks smugly.  
  
“I heard: Engarde’s been acquitted and two more lawyers are facing criminal hearings,” I tell him with a smile, assuming that was what he was coming to tell me.  
  
“Yep,” he says, “and there’s a nationwide manhunt for Shelly de Killer.” He doesn’t sound enthused. “I’m not really expecting us to get _him_ , though: if the guy knows what he’s doing—and he _does_ , he’s already smoke in the wind. Maybe he’ll turn up in the media when he dies—how _old_  is he, anyway?—but Engarde’s going to be shitting himself for a few weeks.”

 

I nod. “I agree with you."

 

He stands there, silent for a moment. “That wasn’t why I dropped in,” he says. “I know you’ve got the internet hooked up to that thing.” He glances at my computer. “Log out for a second, hey?”

 

I do as I’ve been asked, and watch as Parke walks over to my desk and takes the reins of my PC. He smirks at the backdrop as the notes sound, indicating that I’ve logged out, and taps in his password and username.

 

And then he’s online, poking around in the records, in some database accessible to management but not me. A video player starts and he leans back. “Take a look at this.”

 

I’m looking at grainy footage of the telephone room. At one end, Rolla is standing there, his pompadour hair standing out even more than usual thanks to the camera angle and the contrasting lighting. He’s talking on the phone animatedly, though his back is to the wall. He exudes cool.

 

Gavin rushes in frantically, a cold and furious glare on his face. Grabbing the first phone he enounters, he leans over it, though from the angle of his body, it’s hard to see what he’s doing at the keypad. The door, thrown open, slams behind him.  
  
“Notice the glass panel on the base of the door,” Parke says.  
  
“It’s hard to see it.”  
  
“It is, but it doesn’t look broken yet.”  
  
“It looks too grainy to tell, to be honest.”  
  
“Okay—watch this.”  
  
The door opens, and Waverley appears, his walk suggesting he’s in a similar mood to Gavin. I can see the blur of his mouth moving, and I can see that Gavin is holding the mouthpiece close to him. Obviously Waverley is yelling—from across the room, Rolla calls out to him, and then resumes his phone call, guffawing at something. Waverley then touches Gavin on the shoulder.  
  
And that’s when Gavin reacts.  
  
He responds with a knee-jerk, swift-as-hell punch, which only misses Waverley because he dodges ever-so-slightly, to attempt to grab the handpiece from Gavin’s hand. But Gavin isn’t letting go; Waverley has been avoided, and Gavin continues his phonecall. Rolla is still cackling from across the room, and one of Gavin’s hands makes its way up to the button on the phone, presumably terminating the call.  
  
Waverley then tries to reach out to Gavin, his hand near his shoulder. Gavin steps back, an arm lifting as though there’s another punch about to be thrown.  
  
Waverley slips, one hand hitting the duress button as he goes down. Then there’s the rush.  
  
“See, I’m guessing the door shatters when Waverley slammed it open,” Parke says matter-of-factly; “You can’t see the door actually breaking, but—watch this.”  
  
Gavin walks out of the room, surrounded by staff, seemingly aware that he’s on his way to isolation.  
  
And then Waverley is seen yelling—or saying—something—and he kicks out at the door.  
  
I suck my breath in as the footage just shows Rolla talking on the phone, the door swinging back shut, a giant spiderweb of crack in the glass on the bottom panel.  
  
“Either way, Waverley didn’t behave professionally,” I mutter, and Parke nods.  
  
“I wanna know if he kicked that door and broke it, though,” he says. “It was just a door this time, but if that had been someone’s _face_ …”  
  
I always wondered if Waverley would ever react with physical violence towards a particularly frustrating inmate in circumstances where he could be caught. Surely his verbal outbursts and his aggression directed towards inmates he doesn’t like—such as Engarde—and staff he’s liked to stand over—such as Lily—have been noted, but moving from verbal and psychological or covertly destructive into something so brazenly _physical_ seems like a loss of control. Perhaps Waverley isn’t a jerk with a power complex, but a burning out worker, cracking and imploding under his own pressure.  
  
“I don’t think we have enough evidence to prove anything,” I tell Parke. “All we have is whatever Rolla feels like saying.”  
  
“We tried meeting with Rolla today and he’s been unhelpful,” Parke says through gritted teeth. “He found it quite funny, asking why he’s expected to be some sort of stool pigeon for a staff catfight. He’s not talking.” Parke rubs his chin. “Well, he might for some sort of favour or special treatment, but the moment bribes come into this mess, the shadier the whole thing looks, and I’m not doing that. The union will eat me alive if we bribe Rolla to talk.”  
  
“What about Gavin?”  
  
Parke’s brow furrows. “I tried talking to him; he’s behaved as though what happened was a fair price for his conduct, he doesn’t care,” he says. And then he sighs, the look on his face becoming more directed and puzzled. “You know, I actually told him the outcome of the Engarde trial,” he says. “And hejust looked at me and shrugged. When he was back on the floor, he just makes a beeline for Portsman and Tobaye, and the three of them take turns around the chess board until it’s time for work duty. Hell if I know what’s gonna happen when Engarde returns.”  
  
“Maybe Gant will take him back?”  
  
“I dunno,” Parke says. “I think Engarde’s a marked man for the rest of his time here—he’s too crazy and powerless to have any hold over anything, so he’ll be fighting with Callander and Moreau and Hackins for who’s lowest in the pecking order. No one wants him back; most of them were booing and hissing when the outcome of the trial was revealed.”  
  
I just nod. “So he’ll be on suicide watch when he returns…”  
  
“Yeah,” says Parke. “I feel like my concern about Gavin was somewhat overreactive, I guess… he seems to have moved on.”  
  
But Gavin doesn’t move on. Gavin stews on things and plots revenge and people get hurt. Gavin is jealous, whether or not he owns up to it. And he’s slighted much more easily than anyone suspects.   
  
But I just nod to Parke, and he sighs. “I kind of feel sorry for Engarde,” he admits. “He’s come all this way and then he gets back here and…”  
  
In a way, I can see what he means. Perhaps, in a way, it would have been a kind of mercy for Engarde to face the death penalty elsewhere, morbid and awful as such an idea is.  
  
I suppose my lack of wanting to think about it causes me to change the subject. “What about Tobaye?” I ask. “I haven’t seen his name down for any appointments with me… and if what’s apparently happening on the floor is…”  
  
Parke sighs. “You’re worried about the Gavin influence?” Parke asks.  
  
“Yep.”  
  
“It’s funny that those two are getting on so well,” Parke muses.  
  
“Not so funny when you consider that the moment Tobaye turned up, he wanted to thank Gavin for what he had done to his brother.”  
  
“He said that?”  
  
“It’s in the notes,” I tell Parke.  
  
“At any rate, I don’t think Gavin’s going to bite chunks out of him or send him to the emergency room or do Christ knows what to him.”  
  
I nod. “That’s a decent point… but maybe he doesn’t need to.” I look at Parke then, a man with good intentions, who, in his own simple way understands the way these men operate on a level, but who misses some of the darker intricacies.  
  
“What happened to Engarde was consensual,” I mutter. “Gavin just happened to find his weak spot and indulge him. Perhaps for Tobaye, _his_ weak spot is just for some simple human contact and dignity.”  
  
“I get what you’re saying, but… this is safer. Gavin’s not going to lay a finger on the guy who randomly smashed someone over the head with a dinner tray. He’s not that stupid or physically capable.”  
  
“He can react well enough when threatened.”  
  
“That’s it,” Parke says. “ _Threatened_. No doubt that’s what Waverley was doing—but he doesn’t invite trouble.”  
  
I nod. I agree with that much at least, and I’m hesitant to return to discussing Waverley. I’m meant to be impartial in all of this. The fact that I don’t like Waverley isn’t making this easy.  
  
“He doesn’t need to rely on anything physical, though,” I point out. “If he can get to him just with psychological manipulation, he need not lay a finger on him.”  
  
Parke grimaces. “Maybe,” he says. “But I don’t think Tobaye’s that innocent… you don’t spend as long inside as he has without figuring out a few things.”  
  
“So you’re worried… about _Gavin_?”  
  
“I honestly don’t know,” Parke says. “But I think this alliance is probably a lot better than the Gavin-Engarde mess we were dealing with.”

 

I nod. I suppose he’s correct.

 

 

* * *

  
  


Outside attention can do funny things to the unit. When the media mention this place, or people inside it, a strange sort of buzz captivates most of the population for awhile; it’s like the world is noticing us and acknowledging our existence. For men who’ve been locked away fror years, who’ve often become less than blips on a map to their own family members, it creates excitement.  
  
Or tension. It depends on what sort of attention it is.  
  
Sometimes it’s an angry, fuck-the-system, joke’s-on-you situation, as it was when Wood was stood down and somehow that had been leaked to the media. Of course, names weren’t mentioned, but an audit of prisons in the state completed by an independent human rights group found serious breaches to health and safety of both inmates and staff, and inhospitable conditions—at least we weren’t the prison with the chronic bedbug problem and the rodents breeding under the kitchen floorboards—and… unprofessional conduct. No one named Colin Wood, no one named Matt Engarde, no one even named the sex act which had been witnessed occurring between the two of them, but everyone inside the walls I work within damn well knew what the glib-faced news reporters were talking about. And they found it hilarious. It was a snide and disparaging joke for them; for once it wasn’t _them_ being in trouble, it was the supposedly just system which was meant to be punishing them. I have to admit, I can understand to a degree.  
  
When Engarde showed up on the news, due to return to us, there were few personal feelings attached, though it had created the stir. All the inmates needed was a flash of the front of the prison grounds, showing where Engarde would be returning, and there was a strange static crackle of energy running through the place.  
  
I expected something to happen. I just wasn’t sure what would, though.

 

 

 

By evening, nothing has happened. Parke has been informed that Engarde is being held overnight in the lockup cells after a breakdown following his acquittal, that he’s spoken to Gavin regarding the telephone calls, and that Crescend has been questioned in relation towards some rumours that he’d been speaking of _talking to_  Engarde when he returned. The fact seemed to be that everyone was, with varying degrees of seriousness; when called aside by Parke, who’d informed him that this could be detrimental to his parole hearing outcome, Crescend had apparently shrugged and said, “I’m not serious, man—I don’t give a fuck about the little prick. Tomorrow, I’m  _gone_ from this shithole.”  
  
It’s before lockdown, when I’m aware of the duress alarm ringing out through the complex, and I bolt up from my seat as though someone’s caught me doing something disturbing on my computer. Why would a duress alarm be set off _this_  late? It’s after dinner; relaxation time, free time, phone call tim-- those who’d been on physical-labour work duty would be using the shower if they hadn’t at any other point in the day, others would be watching television or playing cards or reading quietly. Usually, by the end of the day, everyone’s too tired and ready to settle for a duress.  
  
So my first thought, when the alarm starts screeching away to itself, is that it’s somehow a false alarm; perhaps a staff member’s knocked one against something, maybe it’s a bad practical joke or faulty machinery.  
  
I feel stupid for my reaction, but the duress alarms condition you, you spring to your feet regardless of where and when or even why you think they’ve been set off.

  
And then I hear the radio.

 

 

“Code blue, man down, A-unit mains bathroom…”  
  
I assume someone’s slipped; maybe Gant or Tigre—older men who might not be as apt on their fett with slippery surfaces, men who were, incidentally, working on the pool project this afternoon.

 

God, I hope it’s not Tigre. It seems a special kind of cruel to apply for transfer to another prison, one with better facilities, one closer to his loved ones—and then be informed he cannot leave due to injuries.  
  
 _Please don’t let it be Tigre_ , I silently ask someone; perhaps it’s a higher power, perhaps not. Maybe it’s just the world in general, a little sparkle of good to make the impending awfulness of Engarde’s return seem balanced out by something.  
  
“Roger that— _lockdown!”  
_ _  
_Then there’s the scurry of people, crackle and noise in the background, and part of me wants to leave my office and see what’s happening and part of me doesn’t in case my suspicions are confirmed and it’s Tigre.

 

 

Either way, I’m going to find out somehow. I glance at my computer and turn it off before stepping out of my office and down the corridor to see what’s happening. My heart’s in my throat, and everything’s pulsing rapidly. I feel sick with what I might learn.

 

I’m not meant to respond to duress alarms; that’s what the staff are meant to do. But somehow they cause me to react; perhaps it’s because I’m part of this place as much as everyone else is, perhaps it’s because my role allows me to observe without getting involved, and like the inmates and even the staff, I have that same hunger for something to break up the routine of the day.

Perhaps it’s because I worry about whom the alarm might be sounding for.

 

By the time I get downstairs, the count’s confirmed, the unit is locked down, and medical staff have been and gone, apparently. Parke is standing in the main area of the unit, staring into the bathroom, and even from a distance, I can see his body shaking, pulsing like he’s being electrocuted repeatedly.  
  
“We need to get something done about that bathroom,” Denham says, approaching him. I can hear the breathlessness in his voice.  
  
“We needed to get something fucking _done_  about that bathroom _before this happened_ ,” Parke spits. And a gut feeling tells me that this wasn’t a simple slip any more, that amongst the panic and the rage Parke’s voice is holding now, it’s been more than that. My stomach nods. My neck is throbbing. I’m not sure if I want to see what happened.  
  
I walk downstairs anyway, and look in through the window of the bathroom. Privacy isn’t really a consideration in here; the _privacy_  the inmates get is the fact that the window faces into a cornered area of the unit away from cells and general traffic. The inmates are still visible from outside, a discreet strip of frost running along the window at what’s hopefully a dignified level, and there’s a plastic chair inside the bathroom should numbers or risks be high enough to necessitate a staff member being in there and supervising. Generally there never are high risks or numbers; bathroom duty is probably the least popular task on the unit, so if it can be achieved with external observation, usually that’s the route taken.  
  
“What happened?”  
  
I’m walking towards the bathroom; the door hangs open ominously, and in the distance, I can see drips splotting down from a showerhead.  
  
“You can write Thomas Moreau out of your appointment book for awhile, doc,” Parke snaps at me, walking towards the Perspex window and giving it an almighty punch.  
  
“ _Fuck_!” he screams.  
  
The swear echoes through the empty unit. “ _Fuck_!” Another smash, which causes the window to rattle and rumble, but of course nothing breaks.  
  
I think about Waverley and the kicked door. Who the fuck are Parke and I to judge?  
  
“ _Fuck_!”  
  
No one says anything, and they’ve shuffled away awkwardly; this is like seeing someone grieving in shock and confusion; this is the result of trauma, and whatever Parke’s witnessed might be too horrible to verbalise.  
  
I gulp. I don’t want to think about it. But the only thing keeping me rooted to the spot is the slight hesitation, the choke in Parke’s voice with that last uttered curse. There’s a close-to-tears frustration there, smething distinctly human that I can’t just walk away from.  
  
“Are you okay?” I ask tentatively. At this stage, I’m almost wanting Parke to lash out physically, to take out whatever rage he needs to on me, because that would be more human and easier to understand than seeing this; a winded and furious and _helpless_  sounding Parke smashing his fists into a window which won’t shatter like a tantrumming child.

 

Parke turns around when he realises I’m still there, and steps away from the window. His eyes are glass and his voice is cracked, his face scarlet and his stance… tired. He looks like life’s kicked him in the balls and he’s only standing up because falling down would take effort that he doesn’t have. Or that he no longer knows how to fall.  
  
He’s still able to save face in front of me, though.  
  
“No,” he says quietly. He looks up towards the direction of the comms office, and seeing that Lily and Denham are in there discussing something, and watching the way they flinch away from one another as though busted when they see us, Parke turns back to me.  
  
“Gonna smoke a whole pack at this rate,” he says, pathetically trying to make light of the situation and exude a casualness which won’t come. “You coming?”

 

 

 

“They fucking brutalised the little prick,” he says through gasps and likely tears which the darkness and the angle he’s standing at manage to hide.  
  
I don’t say anything; in the pit of my stomach is cement. This is Matt Engarde’s early days all over again, isn’t it?— I suddenly feel awful for hoping it wasn’t Tigre. Hell, it could have been Tigre who attacked Moreau.

  
I silently despise myself for thinking that Tigre was a changed man.

  
I don’t want to say the R word in case I’m right, but Parke reassures me.

  
“There was no sexual element to it,” he says in monotone. “But they just dogpiled him—I’ve never seen anyone’s face look like that before; he had blood pissing out of his nose and one of his eyes; apparently they said he slipped, and no one saw anything, but…”

  
And he stops there, inhaling deeply on the cigarette, like he’s hoping every cancer warning he’s had will come to light and strike him down then and there.

  
“Any idea _why_?” I ask. I inhale on my own cigarette, looking at him gravely.

  
“That’s the thing that got me, I think,” he stutters out—“It was so fucking _senseless_. This is Moreau we’re talking about: non-violent offences, he’s harmless—he hasn’t even pissed off that many people; he’s kept to himself.”

 

I just nod.

 

“He—“ And Parke tenses up again, his body clenching—“Godfucking _dammit_ \-- why _him_? This isn’t making sense—the guys who were in there with him were off pool duty—they had no reason to attack him—most of them are long-timers who know what’s at risk if they fuck up—he’s a loner—he’s not part of any great plan or scheme—he’s a godamned computer nerd.”  
  
“Didn’t he hack into our database?” I ask, thinking of that odd occurrence of my network connection being temperamental. “Perhaps they were worried that he had dirt of them and that he was planning on blackmailing everyone like White did?”  
  
Parke shakes his head. “No,” he says. “They don’t do that. They run differently—they’d have _recruited him_  rather than bashed him within an inch of his life.” He sighs heavily, and with the way the light hits his face, I can see the telltale wet lines, crystalline, that show he’s been crying. “There was no fucking _reason_  for it.”

 

Except that there has to be. Parke may not know these people the way I do, and he may not understand, say, Engarde’s masochism or mental illness as opposed to bad behaviour, but like me, he’s aware that things like this done just happen randomly. Somehow, somewhere, there’s a reason for this. If it’s a political one, he’s likely to find it. If it’s an irrational one, I’m likely to. But both of us are stumped, and at this stage, the trauma of what Parke’s seen outweighs any capacity for rational thought.  
  
And perhaps part of the frustration for him is realising that he has no idea what’s going on.  
  
“Did anyone have a personal problem with him?"  
  
“No,” Parke says. He sucks in on the cigarette again. “He didn’t even speak to anyone. No one knew him. He was like he was here last time; no one had a problem with him _then_ , either.” He throws the butt of the cigarette down to the ground and crushes it beneath his boot. “Now he’s holed up in the hospital and there’s talk of moving him  _out_  of here to a proper emergency department if he doesn’t stabilise overnight.” As he speaks, his voice speeds up into panic again.  
  
“Go home,” I tell him quietly. “Have a stiff drink and relax—you can’t do anything else for him at the moment—if he needs to go to emergency, he will, and—“  
  
The wobble comes back into his voice then. “It just gives me flashbacks,” he says. “Years ago—remember when Engarde first arrived?”  
  
And I’m frozen, silent.  
  
“I was the staff stuck doing bathroom duty; this was in the days before the window and the cameras—you know what it was like then—“  
  
I don’t, but I nod.  
  
“I was one of the new guys, so I got the shit jobs, all the stuff no one else wanted to do. And they were replastering the rec room—what’s the rec room now, anyway—some clown dropped a bag of plaster or something, next thing everyone’s covered in powder and flipping the shits about emphysema or asbestos or some fucking shit—“ He spits the words out angrily, reaching into his pocket for another cigarette. It’s as though he’s concentrating on the miniature of the story in order to focus himself. “In hindsight, the whole fucking thing was a setup; we’ve got the whole lot of them in the showers, I’m the new guy, the _screw_  standing up, getting sprayed with water, getting wet towels thrown at me, and eventually I shift to a corner where I’m not gonna get wet or seen enough to be insulted—and there’s a scuffle at the far end of the showers—I don’t see what’s going on because I have ten guys suddenly threatening me… and—“  
  
I realise I know where the story’s going.  
  
“I remember the screaming,” he says and there’s his voice, cracking again. “I remember the laugh and the shower spray and the way that with all these guys in my face crowded around me and everyone dicking around earlier, I’m not sure whether they’re screwing around or it’s more serious… and then Waverley walks in.”  
  
I nod, my mouth open, not saying anything.  
  
“Waverley saw whatever happened,” he says. “I didn’t—I suspect what happened, but Waverley assured me nothing did, no one else is corroborating anything, and I drafted that report. Afterwards, Engarde said things had happened to him, but he didn’t give specifics on what or whom. He didn’t want to talk about it, said it was no big deal, all the rest of it… I’m just some new guy with suspicions, and Waverley apparently stopped anything happening before it did, but…”  
  
His face hardens. “I’ve never trusted Waverley since then,” he says. “At first, I thought he was just kind of clueless and he really didn’t know what was going on, then I see him turning a blind eye to stuff—little things—this isn’t corruption or anything—from certain inmates here who—“  
  
“Gant?” I ask.  
  
“I’m not saying anything,” Parke says. “I received notice this morning; Waverley’s got deNong and the union backing him up on what happened with Gavin, and…” He stops there. “That’s neither here nor there,” he says, shutting it off. “My point is…”  
  
“The bathroom thing reminded you of what happened this evening?”  
  
He just nods, sucking on the new cigarette, looking at the orange tip as it glows and burns.  
  
“Sometimes you see shit—or you don’t quite see it—and it stays with you afterwards,” he says eventually.  
  
I’m inclined to tell him about the Gavin-related nightmares I was having, but I don’t. I can’t.  
  
“I… maybe I’m getting old, but I just can’t deal with this shit any more,” he says. “I wonder if that vacation I took was just the beginning of the end, you know?”   
  
And he sighs sadly, his shoulders heaving beneath the prison officers’ uniform. “Just about anyone else I could have understood—but this one—“  
  
I nod. I want to offer something like “I agree that it doesn’t make sense,” and for some reason I remember Crescend in hospital following an unprecented attack from the Kitakis. But that was explained: that was Gavin working his special brand of rumour-spinning magic. Crescend was an experiment, to see if he could be believed and influential.  
  
“Go home,” I tell him again. “Tomorrow we can talk to them—we can see how Moreau’s faring—we can—“ I don’t know what we can do, but we can get closer to understanding it. That’s the only thing we can try to do, anyway.  
  
Parke just nods miserably.  
  
“We might even get rid of Crescend and Tigre.”  
  
He smiles slightly. “Tigre, to his credit, thank Christ—wasn’t in the bathroom when it happened. He was playing cards with Gant in the main area—“  
  
So Gant  _wasn’t_ involved. Intriguing—  
  
Apparently Parke can read my mind, because he smiles slightly, before the smile turns to a look of grim irritation. “All the usual suspects are accounted for: Gant and Tigre were playing cards—Crescend was in his room reading, Tobaye was playing chess with Gavin and Portsman, Callander was bombed out in his room on whatever meds Smeer’s got him on now—and it clearly wasn’t _one_  person who attacked him.” Fear and frustration has suddenly turned to puzzled. “So ruling out the whackjobs, or the people likely to randomly attack—that suggests it was organised. But it was _crazy_ because there’s no rational reason for it. Which just takes us back to square one,” he murmurs.  
  
He’s right, in a way, and his fear starts rubbing off on me, eating into me and replacing my sense of calm.  
  
“I guess that means there’s got to be a reason for it,” I tell him softly. “Crazy as it sounds.”  
  
He nods, and to my disappointment, I see him walking back towards the airlock and not towards the carpark.  
  
“Night, doctor,” he mutters to me as the door clicks open.


	31. Snap and Crackle

All day, the unit rests on a creaking hinge threatening to give way. The tension in the air practically crackles with an invisible, electric pulse. Inmates are apprehensive and prepared for changes; people leaving always brings a reshuffle in the political order of the place, be they the departures of other inmates or staff.  
  
Everyone knows this.  
  
And arrivals do it, too, and the imminent return of Engarde to A-wing, the bloody departure of Moreau, and the escalating behaviour of Callander and others leaves the entire population on edge with a bouncy, spring-stepped eagerness for _action._ For _something to happen_.  
  
And for the staff, the tension lies in keeping that contained and not letting it go anywhere.

 

Then there’s deNong.

 

 

Parke looks like shit when I see him in the morning, grey-skinned and sweaty, his normally tidy hair a fluffed mess as though he may have just been sleeping on it at his office desk. The expression on his face is grave, too, as though life has repeatedly kicked him in the guts and then asked him to sort out the necessary paperwork confirming the fact.  
  
When he sees deNong in the staffroom, and the look of warning on my face from across the room, he blanches as though he's seen a ghost. Still holding the door handle behind him, I half-expect him to turn and run, though it seems that his need for caffeination wins out over fear. Maybe lethargy has made him indifferent to terror.  
  
Maybe he’s hoping someone’s going to put him out of his misery and fire him.  
  
“I want to know what the hell this _is_ ,” deNong demands. He, too, looks as though he’s had a sleepless night, and I can see a purple vein at the side of his face marring his appearance, like it’s bulged out specifically to terrify Parke.  
  
Parke opens his mouth, but whether it’s to yawn or explain remains a mystery because deNong’s cut him off again.  
  
“I get a call from you at ten thirty last night bcause Moreau’s in a coma and is being moved to the emergency department at the local hospital—I have two staff needing to come off the floor to accompany him there for god knows how long, and now I’m seeing a report stating that no one even knows _why_  this guy was attacked to begin with?”  
  
I always knew deNong was powerful, but I haven’t seen him enraged like this. It’s sleep deprivation and panic—deNong is terrified of media coverage as usual, that nurses in the local hospital might leak things about the infamous unit in the infamous prison where big-name bad guys are being held.  
  
Parke’s face hardens. “The reason he was eventually sent out of here was because the doctors hadn’t stabilised him,” he snarls. “ _That_  was when I rang you, after  _repeated_  calls to the hospital and numerous assurances that he was being taken care of.”  
  
“I realise this,” deNong murmurs silkily. “I was the on-call management you advised of this.” He pauses, in his typical for-effect fashion, and then eyes Parke, sizing him up. “What I’m _concerned about_ , Mil, is that there is still no motive for what brought this attack upon an easily managed, non-violent inmate.”  
  
“I’m still in the process of trying to figure that out myself.”  
  
“And the policy surrounding the bathroom use has changed—we can all thank the men involved for this one for that—“  
  
I feel defensive on Parke’s behalf. “Even Tom Moreau?” I ask nonchalently. deNong glares at me as though I should have stayed in my office, and then continues about the bathroom. “I want bathroom use limited to no more than five specifically-selected inmates at a time,” he says. And there’s the hint of a knowing, latent sort of smile on his lips. “We’ve had too many incidents involving bathroom shenanigans over the years. Despite the introduction of cameras--"  
  
“Camera footage and subsequent inspection of the bathroom camera showed that the camera had been tampered with,” Parke says. “Something which I had not been informed of.”  
  
“We don’t just rely on cameras here,” deNong continues, condescending. “We use our primary senses like we did back in the olden days.”  
  
“Given our low staffing numbers, we had staff attending to other unit duties—“  
  
“Given that _one particular staff member_  is off the floor and currently under investigation because of—“  
  
The implied mention of Waverley shifts the conversation, and perhaps with a hint of guilt, Parke returns to the topic of the camera.  
  
“It appears the camera, at any rate, had wads of wet toilet paper thrown at it earlier in the day,” he says. “Footage reviewed from that time shows Rolla and a few others using the bathroom then. The cameras hadn’t been filming anything for about five hours before the incident took place.”  
  
“And the bathroom wasn’t searched?”  
  
“We didn’t have _time_  to. And no one from the surveillance office informed me that the screen attached to that camera was showing nothing.”  
  
deNong doesn’t look pleased. Perhaps it’s because Parke is right and the camera failure cannot be attributed to him but rather, derelict of duties from a number of people.  
  
“I want to know what the hell happened,” deNong says in a voice that’s an ultimatum. “And I want this Gavin bullshit dealt with as quickly as possible.”  
  
“You can take a look at the video upstairs,” Parke tells him. Beneath the sturdiness of his voice, I see the whites of his eyes flash. He looks like a little boy before the school principal.  
  
“I’ll deal with this one,” he says. “You’re going to tell me what happened to Moreau.”

 

 

 

Gavin’s got an appointment with me in the afternoon. It's been organised by Parke, concerned about Engarde’s return, ironically happening at roughly the same time as the session with me. Parke’s the one leading him in; Gavin’s been pulled from work detail, and seems coolly quiet, looking around at his chaperone with amusement. I glance at his face for a few moments and find myself wondering if he has any knowledge of the Moreau scenario, and then mentally rolling my eyes. Staffroom words come back to me.  _That’s just Gavin wanting to look like he has more power than he actually does…  
  
_ Parke walks to my desk as Gavin stands by the door, walking over to me, and turning his head so that Gavin can’t possibly lipread. It’s an interesting stance for a prison officer; he’s got his back to the inmate he’s supposed to be watching because he doesn’t want the inmate to see his own words. He trusts Gavin. But he doesn’t want to reveal something in front of him.  
  
“You’ll have one after him,” he says quietly. “We got two in just then.”  
  
I nod, pretending to look uninterested.  
  
“Engarde’s back now; he’s just been loaded out of the van and they’re processing him.” _Processing_. Like he’s a carcass in a meat factory. I suppose it’s more succinct than saying he’s being given his issued items, assigned a room, assessed and strip-searched.  
  
“Who’s the other one?” I ask.  
  
Parke gives me a grim smile. “Tigre got moved interstate,” he says. In that very brief moment when I heard Tigre’s name, my body had seized up, expecting that by some unreasonable stretch of the imagination, he’d been refused the transfer and that Crescend had been released. I force myself to remain still as Parke continues. “But we’re doing Engarde first because Crescend’s going apeshit in the van. So you’re dealing with him after you’ve done this.”  
  
“ _Thanks_.” The idea of Crescend “going apeshit” isn’t one I can imagine. I don’t want to.  
  
Parke barely gives me a moment to contemplate what he’s just said, and turns to Gavin who is standing near the door, examining the fingernails on his left hand.  
  
“There you go,” Parke says absently to him. “Hope it… works.”  
  
Gavin gives him a tiny smile, sunny and harmless, and a nod. “Thankyou, Mister Parke,” he says. He looks at me with that same honeyed smile as Parke leaves the room.  
  
“Hello, Doctor. It’s been quite some time, hasn’t it?”   
  
I nod and he walks towards me. It’s mere formality; his obedience doesn’t feel like compliance but merely part of some silly act he has to perform to keep the peace. He’s still smiling as he takes his seat and crosses his legs; there’s something different which I cannot quite place in him at the moment.  
  
“How have you been since we last caught up?” I ask. _Caught up_. Like we’re old college friends meeting for eggs benedict and a coffee during our lunch breaks.  
  
“Very well,” he says. The smile still lingers on his face and he narrows his eyebrows. “What about you, doctor? I understand things have been rather busy for you of late.”  
  
“We’re here to talk about _you_ ,” I point out. I stiffen in my chair, determined not to be dragged into his undertow. We’re not talking about _me_.  
  
“I apologise,” he says evenly.  
  
“I suppose you’re aware of the news concerning your…” I struggle trying to clutch to words to describe Engarde-- _lover_? No. _friend_? Hell no. _Companion_?—“old room mate.”  
  
He gives me what might be a look of contempt. “Every single one of us here are aware of Engarde being acquitted,” he says calmly. “And yes, that includes me.”  
  
“So how do you feel about it?”  
  
He’s quiet for a nanosecond longer than it usually takes him to reply. I’m almost expecting a casual, distracted observation about something perfectly unrelated, and I surreptiously shift my daughter’s plaster figurine across the desk lest he start discussing her or the origin of it.  
  
“Am I supposed to have feelings about it?”  
  
I clear my throat. One isn’t supposed to have feelings. Not really. It isn’t my job to tell my clients that they’re _meant_  to have feelings. But I know somewhere deep down, he has some sort of thoughts about what’s happened. “I just assumed you might have,” I say, trying to sound casual. “After all, you and Engarde did go through a lot together.”  
  
“And I decided that I no longer wished to be associated with Engarde when I learned of his drug abuse.” _And Apollo Justice… and Phoenix Wright… and Klavier… all betrayed you or did things which you greatly disapproved of, yet you still felt something for them, didn’t you?  
  
_ Something enough to cause you to try and hurt them further.  
  
“I have no need to concern myself with Engarde’s melodrama,” he says. “And  it appears that I have new associates now.” He sounds so casual about it. “Tobaye is quite the chess player, and Portsman does like to talk about his former achievements. I suppose he and Tobaye have the commonality that they both harbour intense dislike towards my brother, so the two of them have bonded—“  
  
“But the nature of the relationship between you and Engarde was different, wasn’t it?” I ask.  
  
He narrows his eyes slightly, and the glasses slip down his nose. “I miss the  _release_ , if that is what you are referring to,” he says. “Though I have managed to satisfy myself on occasion if the need has arison.”  
  
There’s a dark, coy, smirk on his face. It’s like I’m staring into the abyss and just realising the depth is infinite.  
  
No, Mr. Gavin, I don’t particularly want you to tell me about your sexual interests.  
  
Pushing his glasses up again, it only occurs to me how perfectly composed he is while he’s talking about this with me. He could be talking about meaningless tasks throughout the day of what he had for dinner last night or about how his medication is working.    
  
“I wasn’t referring to that,” I manage to force out.  
  
He runs a hand through his fringe and smiles. “Yes,” he says, as though remembering. “Discussing sex with me makes you uncomfortable.”  
  
I cannot help but cringe, deciding that I don’t like what appears to be Gavin wrestling for dominance, and I steer the conversation slightly.  
  
“What was the isolation about?” I ask, my voice cool and blunt.  
  
“Which isolation?”  
  
“Your most recent one: the one involving an altercation between yourself and a staff member.”  
  
He grimaces, and shakes his head, emerging with a condescending smile. “Oh, _that_ ,” he tells me airily. “I do believe that Glenn Waverley may just have some anger management issues.” He shrugs. “I suppose Rolla laughing at him in the phone room only added fuel to the fire, didn’t it?”  
  
“Why did Waverley ask to talk to you in the phone room?”  
  
“He wanted me to cease my telephone call, which is in direct violation of my—“  
  
“I believe Parke has spoken to you about appropriate telephone use,” I cut him off with. “I think both of us know what I’m talking about.”  
  
There’s a flash of something on his face in that moment, which almost looks like it could be genuine confusion. He’s a good actor, a perfect poker face, I’ll give him that. He smiles at me again after a moment, folding his hands in his lap.  
  
“I promise to never do it again,” he says with the voice of a choirboy. Something much less innocent creeps into his voice in the following statement. “Though I do believe it is not your role to worry about my misbehaviour and punishment.” He pushes his glasses up his nose. “I do believe there could be a blurring of boundaries, doctor: you earn your clients’ trust by _not_  being part of the system. As far as I understand it, your role becomes meaningless if your duty becomes compromised because you’re seen as  _staff_.”  
  
I hate his smugness. I hate the casual hair strokes and the way he’s smiling so damned much in a way I haven’t seen before. I hate the way he’s screwing with me. I hate the fact that he is telling me how to do my job when if he should be advising anyone, it’s deNong who’s too busy sticking up for Waverley and threatening Parke to worry about Moreau and getting to the bottom of that mess.  
  
Screw boundaries.  
  
“It seems that you’re in an elevated mood today, Mr. Gavin,” I tell him. “Given the lack of other observable changes on the unit lately, I can only deduce that this may be because of some of the _human_  issues.”  
  
“I’m not quite sure I understand, Doctor.”  
  
I lean in towards him, trying to track any shift in his expression as I speak. “Perhaps you’re looking forward to the possible departure of Tigre or Crescend,” I suggest. “Or perhaps you’re pleased about the return of Matt Engarde.”  
  
No change on his face. A little sarcasm never hurt. “Unless, of course, you’re pleased that Tom Moreau has been moved out to the state’s emergency department after being brutalised yesterday evening.”  
  
That’s when he laughs. It’s not the evil cackle I was told emanated from him when he was convicted the second time, rather it’s a slightly nervous, flighty sort of laugh, amused by the obscurity of what I’m saying.  
  
“Oh, I did hear about that,” he says, toying with a lock of hair absently. “How very unfortunate.” Changing the subject from Engarde and his feelings as usual. “I suppose those organised crime heavies were irritated that Moreau didn’t let them in on unmoderated phone calls.”  
  
What did he--?  
  
Suddenly, I’m not interested in talking about his feelings about Engarde, either.  
  
“Organised crime heav—?“  
  
He sighs very quietly, as though he’s dealing with an imbecile. “That’s who the men in the bathroom were, were they not? I imagine they understood that Moreau was able to work magic on the telephones, and they were understandably angry that he hadn’t let them in on his little secret.”  
  
“How would they have known?” I don’t want to be the suspicious, unprofessional doctor wanting to tie Gavin to yet another incident on the unit, and I can feel my brain throbbing with what feels like the start of a terrible migraine. _Did he or didn’t he?_  If he’d been spoken to by Parke, wouldn’t the phones have been fixed anyway? Therefore there’d be no use in beating Moreau into silence—and Parke _had_  spoken to him, hadn’t he? He’d said so; it was taken care of.  
  
“I don’t know: Moreau probably talked about it. I didn’t know him _very_  well, but he enjoyed bragging about his technical expertise. I suppose it kept his self-esteem afloat.”  
  
He shrugs. It’s haunting, the way he’s talking about Moreau as though he’s no longer with us, as though he’s a _was_ , not an _is_.  
  
“You worked the phones for your own benefit, too, didn’t you?”  
  
He narrows his eyes again. “People talk, don’t they? Though I suppose Parke had no other way of knowing what Waverley was doing to this place in his absence.”  
  
“Waverley,” I muse, trying his vague act on for a moment. “There’s that name again—“  
  
“Waverley was accusing me of things he has no proof of,” he says. “And I understand that’s a sackable offense.”  
  
“If it’s proven that his accusations are false.”  
  
“If it’s proven that he’s held a grudge against me, something which surely can be corroborated with the words of others—and if it’s proven that his accusations _cannot be proven_ , he can be permanently suspended for improper conduct.”  
  
Damn him and his reading up on legislation. Damn him for being right… and hang on? When did I start feeling concern for Waverley?  
  
There’s an odd sort of stalemate between us then, where we’re just looking at one another. It feels like it’s going on for minutes, but the actuality is probably only a few seconds. His eyes are magnified behind the lenses of his cheap glasses, icy blue-grey and alive with a spark suggesting he’s on the brink of something. I haven’t seen him look this _playful_  in a long time.  
  
“Why did you explode at Waverley?” I ask finally.  
  
“Who says that I did?”  
  
“The reports.”  
  
“Words can lie, doctor,” he tells me smoothly. “As I’m sure you’re aware.”  
  
And that’s when I find myself wondering why he went into law. When he could have had a perfect career made out for him in interrogation. Or terrorism. Or as a cult leader. He’s sitting there, still, vaguely amused, and I’m feeling sweat make its way down the back of my shirt.  
  
“Videos don’t.”  
  
He raises an eyebrow. “I doubt video footage of the Waverley incident was featured on _America’s Funniest Home Movies_.” And he gives me a look of consideration. “And I doubt a man of your intellect would watch such a thing.” He blinks. “So how, then, if you are telling the truth, did you see certain video footage?”  
  
And then it feels like there’s going to be another one of those weird stalemates, or an uncomfortable questioning session where he starts attacking my role or integrity because Parke showed me the video. Instead, I’m thankfully saved.  
  
By the screech of the duress alarm.  
  
And that’s when the panic appears on his face: he leaps up from his seat, craning his neck to see what’s happening outside the window.  
  
“Please sit down, Mr. Gavin.”  
  
“Code black, assault in west common area—man down—code black”—I hear it on the radio and so does he.  
  
I shouldn’t be too harsh on him, I suppose. The freeze and fight-or-flight reaction to the duress is only human.  
  
“I suppose we can’t continue the session like this—“ he says loudly over the shrill repetitive beep.  
  
“I—“  
  
He walks towards the door. “I’d like to leave now, doctor,” he says, loudly and frantically."  
  
“You know I can’t do that—“  
  
“Code _black_ , west common area—man and, uhm,  _woman_ down—code blue, medical emergency—west common area—“ _Woman_? Female officers aren’t common here, but even _less_  common are assaults against them.  
  
“Roger that—“ I do a mental headcount. It’s either Lily or Ruth Venn, whom I passed in the foyer as I came in this morning.  
  
“I want to _leave_.” Gavin is pacing now, hurried and frantic, his fists clenched and the shadowing of the scar on his hand starting to blush through. I’m not focusing on that, I’m focussing on the grimace on his face, the sheer rage. He’s been brewing, not reacting, for a long time now, and it’s only been recently, since the Engarde court drama, that we’ve started to see cracks forming in his calm veneer.  
  
It’s out of his control. It’s panicked. And I genuinely believe that he has no idea what’s going on outside my office.  
  
And the shrill alarm continues. There’s another crackle over the radio which neither of us can make out, and then there’s a strange sigh of relief as the alarm is shut off.  
  
“Can I leave now, please?” he asks, even though he knows he’s not going to be let out of my office until staff arrive. “I do believe our session is finished anyway.”  
  
I decide to divert the rage and reveal something to him. Possibly to distract him and kill time until someone arrives, possibly to give him a sense that he knows what’s going on. “I have something I wish to tell you,” I tell him.  
  
He freezes, looking at me suspiciously. The sneer on his face says it all _I thought we weren’t meant to be talking about you_.  
  
“Next week, I will be on vacation.”  
  
“Oh?” he asks.  
  
And that’s when the mask slips, when my own cracks form. “I’m catching up with family,” I tell him off-handedly. Perhaps the smile in my voice, the thought of Anna, gives it away. Suddenly he’s looking at me with interest, like I’m a zoo keeper walking past the lion pen with a wheelbarrow of raw meat.  
  
“Family,” he says slowly. “I’ve never thought of you as having family.” And then he looks down at the recently moved plaster ornament from Anna’s kindergarten days. “I suppose this is a present from a beloved… _child_?”  
  
I’m not often asked about my personal life, and it’s seldom referred to. Of course, I like to keep it that way, but it makes me unused to dealing with comments about it.  
  
“She isn’t that little any more,” I find myself saying against better judgement. This was a man who tried to pin a murder on a girl not much younger than Anna. This was a man who was good with children. This was a man who was sexually assaulting his little brother and who may have been having sex with his underaged apprentice.  
  
“Oh.” He stops there. “You seem so dedicated to your work I wonder how any of you have _time_  for children.” _Don’t, Kristoph_ , I’m thinking. _Leave it alone_.

  
I don’t say anything, frozen with fear about what will be asked next. Thankfully, he steers the conversation off elsewhere. “Of coure, some of the staff here are so unprofessional and repellent that I easily can imagine them childless, merely handling their own sexual appetites with well-paid prostitutes or their own hands,” he says. He smirks again, and then looks from me to the door, expectant. “I hope you enjoy your vacation.”  
  
It’s funny, because in that moment, I’ve realised just how sincere and interested he can sound, and I suspect that if he’s able to maintain that for some time towards the unsuspicious, then I can understand how people like Apollo Justice and Phoenix Wright—and even Matt Engarde—can fall for his interest and empathy. Moreso when I consider that each of those men have been blinded by their own vulnerability.  
  
There’s a tinkle of keys and a push behind the door, breaking my chain of thought. I’m connected back to the rest of the unit, and my thoughts immediately race to the injured woman and whatever necessitated the duress alarm.  
  
Parke appears at the door, flustered, and seems grateful to see Gavin standing there, waiting to be escorted back to the unit. “Looks like we might hit lockdown again today,” he says grimly, through gasps, as though he’s talking to the both of us. Gavin says nothing, his panic subsided almost as quickly as it started. Parke gives me a nod which suggests we’ll be talking later, and he opens the door for Gavin, who walks through, calm and collected as he usually is, giving Parke no indication of his former anger and panic. “Goodbye, doctor.”  
  
He’s calm _now_ , but those frantic two minutes probably showed me more of the real Gavin than I’ve seen in the months of dealing with him one-on-one. I wonder what his week off-- and my week off—will be like.

  
  
  
  


“I lost it.” Crescend still looks like a mess. There’s a smear of rusty blood running across his face and his left eye looks angry and swollen. A bruise is already forming across his cheek, marring his formerly pallid complexion. And his hair—perfectly brushed and tidy for court, has random flyaway streaks lifting off it. He looks like smoldering remains of a fire.  
  
“What exactly happened?” I ask. All I know is that he was ushered in by a shaken-looking Field, and that he promptly sat down and, without even saying hello, blurted out his confession.  
  
“Engarde pissed me off,” he says. “Little fucker doesn’t know when to stop: he’s fuelling me in the back of the van—sure, we’re in separate cells, but I can hear him in there; on the way in, he’s telling me how I’m not gonna make parole, on the way out, he’s laughing and saying “Told ya so, cunt.”” He spits out the words with disgust. “When we’re back on the unit, I’ve made my mind up, you know? All it takes is the little cocksucker to come up to me and say something stupid— _Welcome home_ , or some bullshit, and I lost it.”  
  
I suck my breath in. At least he's being honest. He's a man who's lost everything: he has nothing to lie for any more.  “How did Engarde come off?”  
  
“He’s fine,” he says, dismally. “I’m glad I didn’t make him bleed: I’d have been chucked in iso, I guess, and if any of his blood had gotten on me, fuck knows what I’d be worried about contracting.”  
  
“I didn’t realise there was still bad blood—no pun intended—between you and Engarde.”  
  
“He’s still the same little prick who knocked out my caseworker and lost us the music room.”  
  
“So this is all about the music room?”  
  
Crescend sighs, his bony shoulders heaving under the prison suit. “It’s about hope,” he says quietly, not quite looking me in the eye. There’s a choked muffle in the back of his throat like he’s trying to stave off tears. “I really thought I was gonna get out and see my old man again.”  
  
I hadn’t thought that, but I hadn’t wanted to make that clear to him. I’ve seen how some of them react when no one has any faith in them. I try to remain neutral and privately hopeful.  
  
“My next parole hearing’s in three years,” he says in a murmur. “From this angle, I have nothing left to lose.”  
  
I think of Gavin spending months in solitary confinement after the assault on Wellington.  
  
“You suggested that you had the music room,” I offer softly. “Perhaps we can opt to make it a goal to—“  
  
“Screw goals,” he snaps, his head jerking up, his voice rising. “I behaved myself, I did the right fucken things, I made it my _mission_  to keep my cool around pricks like Engarde and Gavin to show that I’m a changed man—being a changed man doesn’t mean shit to anyone. Far as they’re concerned out there, we get locked up, we rot.”   
  
Small droplets of saliva spray out of the corners of his mouth, propelled with his rage and disgust. “I might as well make a life sentence worth it: why _not_  go after the scumbag who cost me my rec time and the snot-faced prick who was raping my best friend?” He leans across my desk, his hands pushing into the surface. Up close, I can see the weathered skin, the wrinkles forming where they never were in Gavinners promo shots, the blue eyes still intense and glimmering like sharpened blades. The dots of saliva near his mouth, the ratty hair and the now dried smear of blood across his face don’t make him look any prettier, either. I’m expecting the worst; my hand is clutching my duress alarm like I’m pressing my fingers against the trigger of a gun, ready to discharge. I won’t press the button until I have to. Until he sees the whites of my eyes and decides to smash the computer monitor into me or grab my collar and pull me across the desk.  
  
“Mr. Crescend—“  
  
“What. The. Fuck. Is. This. Shit?” His sharklike teeth snap ominiously with every word spoken. “Engarde had something to do with those drugs and he killed a man in cold blood and—“  
  
 _So did you_ , I feel like saying, but now’s not the time for logic.  
  
He stops, possibly realising the hypocisrisy of his complaint, glaring at me all the saem. “Dunno even why Parke sent me up here to see you,” he snaps. “I swear, next time I hit the floor, Wellington and me are going to have a punch-on over which one of us gets to smash the living shit out of Engarde—“  
  
He's furious and frantic and he has nothing left except a stockpile of rage and a need to hit out at something. And it looks like Engarde was once again in the wrong place at the wrong time. I sigh.  
  
“Perhaps Parke sent you up here because he’s giving you the chance to calm down and not get in more trouble.”  
  
“Or he’s too busy getting sucked off by Engarde so the little prick avoids going to iso.” He pauses. “No: that’s Waverley, huh?” He glares at me with disgust. “And we all know Gavin took care of _him_ , right?”  
  
"We aren’t here to talk about other inma—“  
  
“Fuck that shit. What the fuck am I meant to talk about then? Rotting here for another three years while my dad dies of cancer?”  
  
I feel as though there’s nothing I can do or say to console him.  
  
“We can work on managing your anger and disappointment,” I suggest. “Or maybe you can talk about strategies for stopping things getting worse—“  
  
“Give me pills, doc,” he snaps. But there’s nothing vicious in the movement, he’s resigned and disappointed and miserable. “Just bomb me out for a few days, send me off to fucking la-la land like Smeer does to everyone, hey?”  
  
“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”  
  
He looks at me for a long time and then sighs. “Well gimme a transfer to Smeer, then, you fucking prick.”

 

 

 

“Tomorrow morning, we get them to mediate.” Parke looks at us seriously. It’s the end-of-day catchup meeting, night staff are already here and waiting and listening to what’s happened. The board to the side of the wall lists changes in bedrooms. Crescend and Engarde’s names are written in red marker, ominous and dangerous compared to the usual black, like they’re some sort of highlighted threat.  
  
“You’re shitting me, right?” Hamm glares back at him incredulously. “That’s gonna be as likely as Gant and Gavin going for romantic dinners together and Tobaye getting conjugal visits.”  
  
“Well we’ve got to do something with them,” Parke says. “Right now I’m up to my neck in bullshit, I still have no idea why Moreau was bashed, and I’ve got a bunch of other crap to sort out that I can’t discuss with you.” He paces across the staffroom, visibly stressed and exhausted. Once again I find myself wondering how much sleep he had the night before. And if he slept in his office. “Last thing I need is another Engarde explosion.”  
  
“At least Tigre got moved,” Field says.  
  
“Tigre was the item of least concern,” Parke says. “We’ve got an all-in brawl about to happen and we would have had that with or without Tigre. If not anything, it’s going to get worse, because Gant’s boys will now be jockeying for prime position in the group.”  
  
He stares out at the rest of us and then notices me, offering a weak smile as I sip my coffee. “How’d it go with Crescend?”  
  
“Not great. He’s still angry about his parole getting knocked back and he wants to lash out.”  
  
“All the more reason to mediate him and Engarde.”  
  
“Didn’t you _see_  what happened to _Lily_?” And that’s when my gaze scans the room and I notice her, standing towards the back, which is uncommon for her; usually Lily sits near the front with a cup of tea or a coke. Her face is ruddy, her eyes look sore, and her left arm is secured with a sling.  
  
“It’s not broken,” she says defiantly.  
  
“You should have taken the rest of the day _off_ ,” Hamm says to her.  
  
“Yeah—and leave us understaffed so more people can get injured? I’m not doing that.”  
  
It’s typically stubborn of her, but also vaguely comforting to know that there are people happy to look out for the good of their colleagues.  
  
“Look,” Parke says, as though he’s already had the conversation several times before and knows it won’t result in a change of mind—“You _can_  go home. Take a week off; we have casual staff and people happy to do overtime-- people will understand. You saw the way the others reacted—“  
  
“The inmates who saw what happened weren’t defending my honour. They just want a reason to beat up on either Engarde or Crescend,” she snarls back. “Half of _them_ were treating their own wives and girlfriends like punching bags on the outside, so I don’t buy the fairer sex chivalry thing for a minute.” Her voice is thick with anger. And maybe pain.  
  
“Um, what happened?” I ask.  
  
Everyone turns to me, and after a moment of silence, a million and one chattered stories come forth. Parke clears his throat. “The report should be in your email, but the short of it is this: Crescend and Engarde began verbally abusing one another, the verbal abuse turned physical, and Hamm and Lily tried to split them up. And someone—possibly Engarde—shoved Lily out the way leading to a broken—“  
  
“It’s _not_ broken,” she says again, but I can still see a tinge of pain in her eyes. Maybe she’s hoping to deny the pain of a broken bone away.  
  
“I heard a crack,” Hamm says. But he’s not arguing, he sounds decent and concerned.  
  
“That was someone’s leg hitting the wall, not my arm,” Lily insists. “Trust me: I’d _know_  if my arm was broken.”  
  
“Anyway…” He peters off, still looking at Lily, who is casting him the look of a cop at a crime scene: _Nothing to see here, move along_. “Lily was injured, and suddenly we have inmates watching the whole thing threatening the two of them—how dare you hit a woman type stuff—“ Another look at Lily—“and I don’t know _how valid any of it was_ , but it’s only added fuel to the mass of explosives we have sitting here.” He breaks off, eyes away from Lily now. “I want both of them placed on obs, and I want them mediated tomorrow morning. The sooner we nip this thing in the bud, the better this is going to function: let these two stew and form alliances and we’re going to be in a hell of a lot of trouble.”  
  
“Or we’re going to have a third party faction to worry about,” Field suggests, his voice slow and quiet, like he’s been considering the potential. Everyone looks at _him_. “Think about it,” he says. “Crescend and Engarde are pretty much universally despised, but Engarde has a few people he’ll cosy up to for favours. Crescend has no one, but enough people adamantly despise Engarde—your Tobayes and your Portsmans and Rollas and his crew and your Gants—“  
  
“But Tobaye and Portsman are friends with Gavin,” Hamm says.  
  
“Precisely,” Field says. “They’re not going to team up with Gant _or_  Crescend _or_  Engarde, but they’re going to want both of them out of the picture. And somewhere amongst the throng, money or favours will change hands and the gang heavies are going to step in. And then we’re going to have a recipe for riot on our hands if not anything else.”  
  
I realise that the silent “r” word—the _other one_  is in everyone’s mind. No one speaks it, it’s like a worrying spell, a sigil, something that gets uttered and then a particular brand of chaos magic is worked. If you speak it, it will happen.  
  
Parke realises it at the same time as I do. And Parke doesn’t stand for superstition or bullshit.  
  
“I can’t see any of these guys starting a riot,” he says. “Most of them don’t have that sort of pull around here.”  
  
Lily’s eyes are hard and focussed. “But Gavin does,” she says.  
  
Field turns around to look at her and snorts. “Are you agreeing with Waverley again?” he asks with a giggle. Hide fear behind humour.  
  
“No,” she says testily. “But—if various allegations about Gavin are true—and I still believe he had more to do with White’s death than can be proven—there very well could be an… _incident_.” She doesn’t use the “r” word.  
  
“This is why we need to contain and handle the situation as quickly as possible,” Parke continues. “Get Crescend and Engarde mediating; perhaps if both of them feel like they have one less enemy, they won’t fear-react like they have done in the past.”  
  
“When’s Crescend done that?” Towne asks. “Never. And what happens if Engarde fuels up his desire for revenge or Christ knows what or—“  
  
Parke’s eyes darken. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he’s convinced he can get Engarde and Crescend to mediate. And rarely is there any chance of changing Parke’s mind once he’s made it up.  
  
“We could reshuffle some rooms again,” he says grimly. “Although given the way that worked out last time someone who had an issue with Engarde was sharing with him—“  
  
“Gant?” Lily asks bitterly.  
  
“I wasn’t talking about when Waverley was running the show,” Parke says diplomatically. “I wasn’t here when that happened.” He sighs. “I was talking about when we put Gavin and Engarde in together—that’s what started this whole clusterfuck.”  
  
I consider what Gavin had told me in the past: it would have happened anyway. Engarde fell into his lap. If it hadn’t worked like that, it would have been Gavin seducing Wellington and picking the Gant group apart like a two year old demolishing a birthday cake. It wasn’t specifically the Gavin—Engarde partnership; it was _Gavin_. Charming, likeable, and brutal manipulator hellbent on revenge as he is.  
  
I find myself thinking about the way he sounded quite sincere when he wished me well on vacation. Trying to shake that thought—of _course_  he wished me well, of course he sounded genuine—that’s how he _works_ \-- I wonder. He only has power because people have given him power.

 

There are murmurs amongst the group, and Parke senses the need for a change of subject.  
  
“On another note,” he continues, “I’d like to wish our long-suffering doctor –“ He’s cut off before even mentioning my name—  
  
“Don’t tell me you’re leaving?” Towne asks—“I was gonna ask you about Callander—“  
  
“I’m taking vacation for a week,” I assure him.  
  
Everyone exchanges a dark look.  
  
“Can you at least do tomorrow AM?” Parke asks.  
  
I think about it. I’m not picking up Anna until late afternoon.  
  
“I can organise some meds for Callander,” I tell Towne—“And—“ turning to Parke-- “you want me in that mediation, don’t you?”  
  
He nods grimly, a thankful look on his face. He knows I’m going to say yes. He knows that he owes me, too, but then again, I appreciate some of his efforts. And in this type of workplace, you can never have too many friends.  
  
“All right,” he says, looking around at everyone, slightly more relieved. “You guys know the show—if someone can sort out those obs papers for our two new returns—“  
  
Venn, who hasn’t said a word throughout the meeting, pipes up over him. “How’s Moreau?” she asks. No one’s asked about him. Parke’s not mentioned him, and now I’m curious. He may not have been mentioned because his injuries weren’t serious enough to worry about. Or there may be some other reason.  
  
“Not good,” Parke says, sighing again, as though Moreau’s a problem who’s been relegated to the agenda for another meeting. “At the moment, they’ve got him bombed out; he looks fucken terrible; half his head’s been shaved and he’s got a million things hooked up to him. At the moment they’re stabilising him and looking for signs of brain damage—“  
  
“We still dunno _why_?” Towne asks.  
  
“Nope. Not a word.”  
  
He faces us again, and smiles slightly. “The chips’ll fall where they may,” he says. “At the moment we’re doing what we can for the poor bastard; he’s safe. And I dunno about the rest of you, but I get the impression no one’s going to be singing about what happened. Though I’ve asked the guys on E wing to keep an ear out. The assailants were from that direction, and it looks like some sort of organised crime thing—“  
  
“What about Tigre?” Field asks. “Wasn’t he mixed up with that stuff and some computer hacking thing?”  
  
“It’s possible,” Parke says, as though it’s only just occurred to him. “Possible but not likely. Of course—hell— _Machi Tobaye_  could have masterminded the whole thing with Hackins, couldn’t he?” Parke shrugs with a _search me_  expression.  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Precisely. Anyone’s guess.”

 

 

 

A countdown is happening in my mind. Part of it is fuelled by excitement; the idea of a beautiful airport reunion, seeing Anna rushing towards me amongst a mass of people, marvelling at a young woman who has changed so much since I last saw her, the bittersweet knowledge of having missed out, but knowing that I have a week to reconnect.  
  
There’s apprehension: what if I’m just trapped in whimsy, wanting the Hallmark moment and forgetting the human? I need to think of the positives, though. They make the apprehension about the other countdown bearable.  
  
  
Like Parke, like everyone else on the floor, I’m lying in wait for things to get worse. I’m not sure what’s going to happen, but the possibilities are all hideously endless, and nothing major has happened for what feels like a long time. Boredom is one of the worst punishments available to man: when people get bored, they deteriorate mentally. Or they find something to do.  
  
I think back to the news, to riots and uprisings and tragic moments I’ve seen in black and white print and in pixellated high-def on television, to war zones and natural distaster and manmade powder kegs waiting to go off. Early university days, when I was much more innocent, come to mind: all that seemed so distant. We talked about Durkheim’s theory of anomie. We talked about the Engardes who’d achieved everything and who had nothing else to achieve and who fell into a grip of chaotic meaningless, men who’d believed celebrity had elevated their status to that of gods, men who’d thought they could get away with anything.  
  
We talked about the rioters in the early 10s who may have had nothing to lose and who reacted with disorganised rage and fury against the system.  
  
Going crazy because you have nothing to gain and nothing to lose. Anomie. Rioters, celebrities, former powerbrokers, caged criminals, and the whole lot cocktail-mixed together with an over-worked, understaffed workforce.  
  
 _Anomie_. Daryan Crescend, Matt Engarde, Kristoph Gavin, Julien Callander. Like the ticking of a distant bomb I can’t quite place, I know it’s going to go off at some point, and I know it’s going to be a disaster when it does.

  
And that’s why I need to think about how good it’ll be when I see Anna running towards me at the airport.

 

 

I catch sight of Lily, heading out to her car, as I leave through the airlock. She stops when she sees me, giving a wave with her uninjured arm, her pace slowing. I smile at her, slowing down in time with her. I probably won’t get to see her tomorrow before I head off.  
  
“Hey,” she says as I approach. For someone with an injury the rest of her colleagues were worried about, she sounds peaceful.  
  
She struggles one-handedly with a cigarette packet, and I do the gentlemanly thing and offer her a light.  
  
“Thanks.” Inhaling the flame into the cigarette, she grins. “I’m still getting used to… this.”  
  
“You do realise that you could take a few days off, don’t you?” I ask as she exhales.  
  
She shakes her head. “In this state?” she asks. Typical stubborn Lily. Not letting the hurt show through, not letting anything tarnish her bulletproof image.  
  
“You could probably get compensation for it.”  
  
She doesn’t say anything about that, but looks at me curiously. “Not smoking?”  
  
I shrug. The truth of the matter is that in less than twenty-four hours, I’m seeing my daughter for the first time in over a year. I don’t want to smell of cigarettes. I don’t want Anna thinking that I endorse smoking. And I don’t want her returning home to Liz and reporting that Dad now has another undesirable addiction.  
  
“I had one before.”  
  
Lily inhales in on her cigarette like she hasn’t had one in a month. Shifting back, obviously straining her arm some, she winces.  
  
“If it’s really that bad—“  
  
She sighs, exhaling again, exaggeratedly, and rolls her eyes. “Fine then,” she admits. “It hurts.”  
  
I try not to look as though I Told Her So.  
  
“I’ve lived through worse,” she says dryly, in that same hardened, cynical voice she used when she was disregarding the inmates’ concern for her. She doesn’t elaborate, but a smile forces its way across her face.  
  
“So you’ll just… let it heal on its own?”  
  
“I’ll pop a few painkillers tonight, sure,” she says, “But I’ll be in tomorrow.” She’s still smiling. “Look at it this way: I get a stressfree break as it is stands: I’m making the most of this time off without Waverley around.”  
  
I think of de Nong’s bitter resentment about Waverley’s departure. “That mightn’t last that long.”  
  
Instead of looking disappointed, she looks stoic and concentrated, like she’s already considered that. “That’s why I’m planning on enjoying whatever time I do manage to have without him around.”  
  
“So a broken arm is less painful than Waverley?”  
  
She inhales another mouthful of cigarette and nods. “It’s not broken,” she says. “But-- _yes_. Honestly: he’s spent _years_  pissing me off. In all that time, I’ve made sure I’m never having a day off when he’s not working. Right now it feels like I’ve hit the jackpot.”  
  
“So… you’ll be able to manage on the floor?” I can already see that smoking a cigarette is taking more of an effort than it normally would. How she’s going to manage to operate normally and pose no security vulnerability at the same time is going to be… mind boggling.  
  
I can see that amongst the elation of more Waverley-free work hours, Lily hasn’t yet considered the reality.  
  
“Well I’m not going anywhere,” she says. “Parke’ll have to put me on the front desk or something. I don’t have any time owed—“  
  
“But you have sick leave,” I point out. “How’s de Nong going to be if he finds they’re paying a staff member to work the floor while her arm is bandaged up?”  
  
A shifty, Matt-Engarde expression crosses her face then. I know that look: it’s the same look that he had on his face when quoting legislation in regards to the state penal standards.  
  
“They can’t _force_  me to take sick leave if I don’t _feel_  sick,” she says stubbornly.  
  
“Can they force you off the floor though?” I’ve seen it happen in college jobs: when they can’t make you go home, they can make you decide to go home by yourself.  
  
“I’d take the archive room on full pay over sitting at home knowing I’m missing a Waverley-free day at work,” Lily says smugly. “Honestly. I’d take a full day doing _your_  job over that, doctor.”

 

 

I smile at her, bading her farewell and watching her fumble with her keys as she gets into her car. While I understand her animousity towards Waverley, and I can understand the enjoyment at not having to work with him, I can’t quite fathom what would push a clearly injured person onto the floor if they didn’t have to be there. Who is she trying to prove things to? Waverley isn’t there to see her. No one else on the floor really cares about their rivalry.  
  
It’s down to Lily—nice, stubborn, fair, _reasonable_  Lily—to have that sort of will, that sort of drive and perserverence to remain standing when she has no real need or logic to. It’s about nothing more, I guess, than her own twisted satisfaction.  
  
I won’t claim to understand it, and I wonder, as she drives off, teeth gritted and a determined look on her face—if she has a lot more in common with someone like Gavin than any one would suspect.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay: up to this point is everything that's been on the Kink Meme: anything from here on out is new. 
> 
> I just realised today that it's been over two years that I've spent on this fic, and that it HAS to get finished this year. I miss some of my other writing projects. I miss some of the characters who don't feature in this. I miss, bless my twisted little heart-- writing fluff. 
> 
> I'm going to keep posting here because, like I said to a friend of mine, I'm a stubborn little shit and when I decide to do something (and in this case I've decided to finish writing this motherfucken story!!!) I will pretty much do anything to actually achieve that. 
> 
> I've noticed the Kudoses and the bookmarks and all the reads this fic has: I just wanted to say thanks once again for the interest and the support, especially since this fic is still a WIP and it's gotten so huge. You guys are awesome. 
> 
>  
> 
> I hope the rest of this fic is worthy of you guys and that I don't jump the shark in the last leg. (Assuming I haven't already jumped it without realising it.)


	32. Private life, exploded

Perhaps my mind isn’t on my job when I drive in the next morning. All I really need to do is keep myself distracted, write a few prescriptions out, knowing that no one’s going to run out of medication in my absence, read my emails and any significant reports, sit through a mediation, and head off. It all seems so insignificant: I know a mediation isn’t going to change anything; I can already see my reactions to Crescend and Engarde and their petty bickering. I can already hear Engarde’s hysterical shouts and Crescend’s swearing; and in much the same way as I suspect Parke must have done before his time off, I think about the most, realistically, that I can do. Not much. Tie up loose ends for awhile.

 

And unlike my last vacation period, I’m not going to let this place seep into my mind; I’m going to distract my daughter from asking questions about it with activities we can do together, I’m going to _relax_.

 

I kill time by drinking coffee, reading reports and emails, and pacing around my office. I’m waiting; there’s a mental count down going on in my mind, and part of me wonders why I bothered coming in. Because I’m part of the team. Because I need to tie up loose ends. Because the alternative is wandering around my place, double-checking that everything is in plce or drinking copious amounts of coffee in order to keep myself busy.

 

Sometimes the distraction this job offers you can be a welcome thing.

 

 

When I get the call from Parke, I lock up, heading downstairs to one of the professional consultation rooms—usually where new inmates are introduced to Parke and where they have the rules explained to them—which has been reserved for the mediation today. Parke is already sitting at one end of the table, and I take my seat at the other. If not anything else, perhaps the two of us can communicate via facial expressions over Engarde and Crescend’s bickering.

 

They’re not here yet. Parke raises an eyebrow at me, weary, and smiles. “I bet you’re glad to be free of this for a week.”  
  
I nod. “Just this mediation to go—“  
  
“I think we’ll be able to come to common ground,” Parke says. “Even if the least we get is the two of them agreeing to avoid one another.”  
  
“I don’t think they’re ever going to get along.”  
  
Parke chuckles. “Nope,” he says, “Me neither.” He looks thoughtful. “But then again, I never thought Armando and White would get along given the bad blood between them. At least they agreed it was smarter to just leave one another the fuck alone.”  
  
“That was because Armando thought that White was backed up by Gant and his friends.”  
  
Parke shrugs. “I don’t care what convinces ‘em to keep the peace, but I’d prefer they do.” He steeples his fingers, cracking his knuckles. “I’m actually prepared to use your idea about the music room as a motivating factor.”  
  
My eyes widen slightly. “What for Engarde, though?”  
  
“He won’t want the music room anyway.”  
  
“What if he wants it just because someone else has it?”  
  
“Right _now_ ,” Parke says, “The only one who has use of it is Tobaye, and Tobaye and Crescend don’t have any bad blood, and Engarde would be scared shitless of Tobaye. I doubt he’s going to want to learn how to play any instruments, anyway.”  
  
“So you’d put Tobaye and Crescend in a room together?” I ask, considering their history.  
  
“Both have already proven themselves smart enough to not start anything with the other.”  
  
“Fair point—“  
  
“They’ll be supervised, of course,” he assures me.  
  
The door opens, and we fall silent automatically. It’s a grim-faced Towne, walking alongside a scowling Engarde. Engarde sits down, not looking at any of us. Moments later, the door opens again and Hamm walks in with Lily and Crescend. To his credit Crescend looks as though he’s in a better place than he was yesterday; his face is cleaned up, for one thing, and the expression on it looks demure and calm. If I were to guess, he’s been spoken to before being brought down here.  
  
I lean back in my chair, and Parke takes his seat. Lily shifts into hers one-handedly, eyes darting around at everyone. In the back of my mind, I have suspicions that she knows which one of the two men sent her flying into that wall. But I can’t see her talking about that; my guess is that Parke’s asked her in as an example _see what happens when you fight? Other people can get hurt…  
_ _  
_“So,” Parke says quietly. “I think _everyone_ knows why we’re here this morning.”  
  
Crescend shoots him an unimpressed look but doesn’t say anything. Engarde is scratching at some dry skin on the back of his hand.  
  
“Engarde, if you’d prefer to be back on the floor, you can leave now.” 

 

Engarde raises an eyebrow at Parke but doesn’t move from the table. He’s had his warning.  
  
I’ve seen Parke like this before; he’s calm, he seems warm and friendly enough, but he’s thoroughly pissed off. Crescend and Engarde threatening one another like this—and fighting—is just another drama in a prison that should be running smoothly. More shit that he doesn’t need. And I can see it in his face; his eyes are tired, he’s fed up.  
  
“I don’t really know what the hell happened in the court van,” Parke starts. “But I don’t give a fuck, and none of us here have all day to deconstruct the situation—so I’ll put it to you bluntly—this stops today or everyone else in this prison is going to to be despising the two of you even more than they already do. Because if there are fights—there will be lockdowns.” His voice is a growl, threatening and over it.  
  
Crescend’s mouth opens and shuts, like he’s about to make some sort of smartarse, obscenity-filled comment but thinks better of it.  
  
“Do either of you want to talk to us about _why_ this happened?”  
  
Engarde shrugs. Crescend just glares at him, his pale blue eyes little slits of disgust and fury. I wonder if he was talking about getting moved onto Dr. Smeer’s patient list. He’s changed since the parole hearing; there’s something hardened and beyond reach about him now, like he’s given up entirely and the only thing he has left to worry about is his pride and his amusement. It’s worrying.  
  
“I realise you’ve both been under enormous pressure lately,” Parke continues. “Crescend; your parole and family situation, Engarde, your recent brush with the courts—“  
  
“I’m fine,” Engarde says, the scowl on his face toned down into something sweet and harmless. “Happy as a clam, people. Refreshing as a spring bre—“  
  
“Moron,” mutters Crescend. Parke glares at him again.  
  
“Crescend, you can return to the unit if you’d like, too. It ain’t any skin off my nose.”  
  
Stretching, and relaxing back in his chair, in a casual, don’t-give-a-shit way, Crescend shakes his head. “Nah,” he says. “I’ll stay.”  
  
“Allow me to continue.” Parke gives both of them the sort of look that belongs on a high school principal telling off a student for their attitude problem.  
  
“Right—now as I’ve stated, I realise you’re both dealing with hardships, but—what I saw out there, the subsequent injury of a staff member—“ I notice Lily’s face tighten up, her eyes angry. Would such a big deal be made about this if she’d been a _male_ staff member, I wonder—“both of you have been here long enough to know that this isn’t acceptable.” He sighs. At least he’s got silence and their attention now, not smartarse remarks.  
  
“Would one of you like to tell me why this happened?”  
  
Crescend speaks first. “This little sh—this _person_ here is why I don’t have a keyworker and the music room,” he hisses. “When’s Field coming back anyway?”  
  
There’s a silence from Parke who looks awkward and nods to Crescend. “We will organise for you to have a keyworker in the interim,” he says. “That’s the fault of the management, not Engarde.”

  
“I liked Field.”  
  
Parke raises an eyebrow but doesn’t need do any more than that for Crescend to get the message.  
  
“Engarde, would you like to say anything to this?”  
  
Engarde shrugs. “I’d like the music room back, too,” he says. “If he gets it, shouldn’t everyone else?”  
  
“This little prick doesn’t even play an instrument,” Crescend growls, leaning across the table.  
  
“I played flute in an episode of _Nickel Samurai_. I had to learn,” Engarde hisses back.  
  
“No you didn't" that was fake-- all you did was push out your lips and blow,” Crescend snaps back. “Not much different to what you do here—“  
  
“You son of a—“ Now it’s Engarde straining across the table, reaching with an angry, tight hand ready to grab Crescend and pull him closer for a punch. I’m startled at how quick he is. And I’m expecting a duress to go off, not for Parke’s fist to hit the surface of the table with a thud. “Enough!” he roars. “One more outburst and you’re both going back, and it’s lockdown.”  
  
That shuts them up, and sends Engarde recoilling across the table. I glance down at my watch, and then at Parke.  
  
“Listen,” he says. “The two of you have no history of this kind of behaviour towards one another. Crescend: you’ve been doing well lately—Engarde, you’ve never had any problem with him.” He pauses, aware that they’re both listening. “Both of you are at the lowest rungs of the pecking order in here, both of you have no reason for this bullshit—and both of you want the music room.”  
  
“Yeah,” says Engarde, “How come _some_ people get to use it?”  
  
“Maybe because some people don’t get involved in incidents.”  
  
“So Tobaye smashing Callander wasn’t an incident?”  
  
Parke clears his throat. “Engarde…” he warns.  
  
Engarde falls silent. This isn’t open for debate.  
  
“…Both of you have things in common,” Parke offers in no-nonsense tones. “The offer on the table is use of the music room—supervised, of course—which could potentially make your time here easier—“He looks from one angry face to another. “If neither of you are prepared to be civil to one another for that, I’m marking the music room as off-limits for everyone.”  
  
Engarde looks across at Crescend, and smirks, suddenly realising what Parke’s implying.  
  
“That’s gonna fire up that crazy little Borg fucker, isn’t it?” he asks. His eyes are sparkling. Clearly he knows what the implication is: drama, with a likelihood that Crescend will be held responsible.  
  
Crescend doesn’t look impressed, but he nods, defeated but accepting. As far as he’s concerned, he’s got his music room back, and at the moment it means more than anything; more than a rivalry, more than the kid who ratted on him. 

  
“All right,” he says gruffly. Parke gives him an encouraging look. “Shake on it,” he offers. “I wanna see that there are no crossed fingers.” It’s a silly, but serious suggestion that he’s trusting them, that there had better not be any bullshit from here on out.  
  
“Right,” Crescend says in monotone, gingerly taking Engarde’s hand and shaking it, before pulling away as though he’s afraid to have caught something—“Deal, _dude_.”  
  
Engarde isn’t looking at any of us, but he shakes Crescend’s hand weakly. “Deal,” he murmurs.

 

 

 

I suppose this was my final moment of workplace duty before the week off. The mediation went surprisingly quickly and without any problems—I’m relieved. Though a part of me has an ear out for the shriek of the duress: I can’t believe in a perfectly calm day too soon. Murphy’s Law dictates that five minutes from when I’m due to leave, something will wind up rising from the depths and threatening to pull me down with it.

 

Nothing happens. I sneak off guiltily after scribbling out a prescription for Callander’s drugs and firing off a couple of emails regarding a few of my key clients. Parke can take care of writing up the report in regards to the mediation.  
  
I’m out.  
  
I’m _free_. I’m seeing Anna.  
  
I feel like I’ve escaped, and the fresh air on my face in the carpark feels different today.  

 

 

 

My time with Anna provides me an odd, normal respite. With Anna, I can relax, I can feel like my life has purpose beyond trying to unravel the unravelable, I get to feel what I suspect is close to normal. I’m a father and a person as opposed to a member of the prison’s specialist staff.  
  
So why the hell am I so bewildered and nervous?  
  
Anna and I don’t really do the typical holiday tourism thing. I ask her if she’s interested; she’s not. “ _Dad_ ,” she informs me with a roll of her eyes—how typically teenage— _when did she start doing that?_ —“I _have_ lived here before.”  
  
“Chinatown?” “No thanks.” “Gatewaterland?” Another eyeroll. “There are plenty of adults who like Gatewaterland, Anna.”  
  
“Please don’t tell me _you’re_ one of them, Dad.”  
  
“Well what do you want to _do?_ ” I’m feeling like I owe her some… _parenting_. Some _fun_. Some guidance and activities.  
  
“You don’t have to _entertain_ me.”

 

It’s funny how awkward and uncertain I’m feeling. Like I’m fifteen again, on a first date with a girl when I’ve never really worked out how to interact with girls, and I’m clumsily suggesting movies or places to go. I’ve missed all of this. Had I been around, I would know what to do, wouldn’t I?  
  
Anna sleeps in the spare room on the first night and wakes up late in the morning. I sleep in, too, like my body has found a safe and quiet place for retreat at the end of an ordeal. I still need the coffee to kickstart me; old habits die hard, and I can’t get too used to the sleeping in, either—this respite is only for a week, after all.  
  
“Hey dad,” Anna asks over Poptarts and her own cup of coffee ( _Does my daughter normally drink coffee? When did Liz start letting her drink coffee? Does Liz even_ know _?_ ) “Have you heard anything about Shelly de Killer coming back?”  
  
The last thing I want to talk about is work, and I just about spit out my mouthful of coffee. I don’t, swallowing heavily instead as my daughter continues.  
  
“I wrote a paper on him for school,” she says. “I thought he was dead. He just disappeared for so long, and they believe he was born in the fifties, so… I just assumed that—“

I shrug. “You probably know more about him than I do, sweetheart.” The term of endearment feels awkward and out of place, like I’m trying too hard to forge a relationship here.

“Really?” she asks, pepping up. “But don’t you work with people he’s… _worked for_?”  
  
I sigh. “Look,” I tell her. “Most of _them_ don’t know much about him, either, and if they do, they’re not going to say much.”  
  
“Like Matt Engarde?” she asks. “You work with him, don’t you?”  
  
I clear my throat. “I have worked with him,” I tell her. “Though I…what Mr. Engarde and I talk about in the sessions is private.”  
  
“I know.” There’s a whine in her voice. Patient confidentiality is _such_ an unfair thing. “But… do you think that _he_ thinks that Shelly is dead, too?”  
  
“I don’t think so,” I say. “And I think that some ideas can remain very real and very scary for people even when they’re no longer an immediate threat.” That sounds too vague, doesn’t it? “It’s like—you know how some people are scared of the dark? Even though the dark is a normal thing which we should expect and be used to—and even though it usually doesn’t come with bad experiences—sometimes people are scared of it.”  
  
She nods. “Fears aren’t rational,” she tells me matter-of-factly. When did my little girl turn into _this_?  
  
“Precisely.”  
  
“So do you think that Matt was scared of Shelly even though he thought he was dead? Or do you think that Shelly de Killer is really out there somewhere?”  
  
I clear my throat. “Anna… Let’s talk about something else, okay?” I don’t want to show disapproval, but… “I’ve lived and breathed that place and those people for two fulltime shifts for the past few years—and now I get to see you and catch up and—“

  
She nods, processing it. I feel guilty; this is a potential connecting forcem probably the only one we really have left, and here I am shutting down the conversation. Is it healthy for a thirteen year old to be fascinated with high-profile murderers, though? Or do I want her to remain an innocent child for her sake… or for mine?

  
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I just thought—“

 

 _Great_. I’m not trying to stifle my daughter’s interest. Honestly. “Don’t be.” I’m rubbing the back of my neck again, wondering what I’m meant to do. The temptation to ring Liz and ask her if Anna has _always_ been like this occurs to me, but it feels like defeat. I should know what my own flesh and blood is like. And I don’t. And I can’t expect my ex to throw me a lifeline— I’m on my own. And it’s my own fault.

  
She picks up a Poptart and munches on it thoughtfully. We give one another a strange look over breakfast, like we’re still figuring out what we can and can’t talk about. At least she hasn’t asked to see my workplace again.

  
“It’s good to see you again,” she says, finally. She smiles at me. “You still look exactly as I remember you.”

  
Give or take a few more wrinkles and grey hairs perhaps. And when I look at her, I’m reminded that she’s completely different; the face looking at me now isn’t that of a child any more, but a young woman—and I’ve missed seeing that in-between stage of her life. Precisely because I was the same man I was years ago: a man married to his work.

  
“You’re growing up,” I tell her. “But you’re still my girl, and you always will be.”

Will there always be this awkward chasm between us? I don’t want to think about that.

 

 

 

On the last day of her visit, and with few other mentions of anything relating to my work, the interaction between us is still stunted. Our roles aren’t really that of father and daughter any more; Anna is self-assured and mature, she speaks to me as though I’m just any other adult rather than any sort of guardian. Do all teenagers do this, or just ones who haven’t seen their parent for a few years? Somehow, the sweet fatherly visit I was imagining hasn’t happened, though I’m aware it’s my fault for having thought about it too much. The only thing I can do is make sure that I don’t let this much time elapse between us seeing one another again—expecting to see a teenaged Anna and dealing with an adult daughter who barely knows me is something I don’t want to consider.

  
We’ve both slept in on the last morning; we’ve done very little; had dinner out at a few places, we’ve gone shopping, Anna has looked at local landmarks. All the while I’ve observed, trying to understand and connect with her, my thoughts darkening with her apparent aloofness: I’ve been better able to connect with murderers than my own child.

  
“Let’s watch DVDs,” she says after breakfast. It’s been a lazy morning and I haven’t done much more than have a coffee, and stroll down to the shops for the paper. Anna sounds awkward and unsure, like she’s realised that the time is up for her to connect with dad and she’s somehow failed. At least we’re both in the same boat, and at least she’s suggesting bridging the gap.

  
I brighten at her suggestion, flipping very quickly over a story in the paper reporting that there’s been a Shelly de Killer sighting somewhere north of here lest the conversation turn to work again. “That sounds like a great idea, sweetheart.”

  
She smiles. “I remember you used to like those old—who was that in those movies, Dad?”

  
I can’t help but smile a bit more when she calls me Dad. Since seeing her in the flesh, a pronoun for me has been absent; she’s spoken to me with the familiarity of someone who doesn’t need to refer to another by name, or the fake confidence of someone unsure what to call someone.

  
“Adam Sandler.” They were silly, funny films I could usually watch around my daughter when she was little. Lots of slapstick humour and when there were adult jokes, they evaded my innocent child. I wonder what she’d make of them now, but still, I appreciate the suggestion.

  
“Have you got them here?” she asks. “I used to _love_ those movies.” She shifts across the living room and starts looking through my paltry, single-man’s collection of books and DVDs. I feel a pang of sadness; this is nothing like the shelves upon shelves stacked with books and movies which Liz and I had together. Liz kept most of them when we split; I didn’t really fight it. She was right in one of her more cutting moments: I never had time to watch TV or read anyway: I was _at work_.  

  
I had, however, bought myself a few lighthearted flicks and a couple of movies I’d always intended on watching, though as Anna commented—“Most of these are still sealed in plastic wrap.”

  
Not knowing what to say to that, I glanced in her direction awkwardly. “Can you find any of them?”

  
“There’s _Happy Gilmore_ …”

  
Also, still in its plastic wrap.

  
It doesn’t dissuade my daughter; she unwraps it, and I have a wonderful idea.

  
“I think there’s some popcorn in the kitchen.”

  
“Cool—we can sit around in our pyjamas—or I can, at least—and watch funny movies and eat popcorn. Just like the old days.”

  
The old days when her mother was out shopping on a weekend, and I wanted to do something with the daughter I still hadn’t figured out how to relate to. We’d make microwave popcorn and watch silly movies. The fact that she remembers it astounds me, but disturbingly, it could be one of the few things she remembers about me.

  
Ignoring the expiry date on the bottom of the packet, I open the popcorn and begin reading the instructions. A familiar ring sounds out from the living room as I hear an advice warning about the FBI coming after me should I have the inclination to illegally copy _Happy Gilmore_.

  
“I’ll get it!” Anna calls out. “It’s probably Mom wanting to know when my plane gets in.”

  
“Okay honey.”

 

 

I stay in the kitchen, watching the plate in the microwave spin around slowly, the bag expanding, waiting for the first pops of the corn inside. In the distance and over the mechanical fuzz, I can hear that the phone has stopped ringing, and Anna’s voice. “Hello?”

  
I don’t know what she’s saying and can’t really hear much in detail because of the sound from the microwave and the random _pop-pop-pop-pop-poppop-pop_ of the popcorn. But I can hear tones; she sounds curious and friendly, and the conversation is almost stunted but… _curious_. Thinking nothing of it, I grab the cooked popcorn, opening the bag as I walk through to the living room.

  
“Would you like to talk to my dad?” Anna asks, and I can’t help but smile at her as she refers to me as such.

  
“Oh—okay. Have a good day then—thankyou—“

  
“Mom?” I ask, sitting down on the sofa

  
She shakes her head but there’s a giddy, impressed smile on her face. _Alan?_ I wonder. Some boy at school she likes? Who the hell would—

  
“Dad?” she asks carefully, still unable to control the smile. “Mr. Gavin was Klavier’s brother, wasn’t he? The defense attorney who killed a guy in a bar and set up someone else for the murder?”

  
My blood runs cold, and I’m fully conscious of the fact that I’m sitting on the sofa, the bag of popcorn still warm beneath my grasp. But… I’m not here. This is not happening.

  
I want to ask why she’s asking, but a part of me already knows what’s just happened.

  
“Do you think he did it?” she asks.

  
There’s a rock in my stomach which only grows heavier with the look of excitement in Anna’s eyes. I answer her slowly.

  
“Why do you ask?”

 

“Um… that was him on the phone just then.”

  
I don’t believe this.

  
  
“I didn’t know they could call you from in there,” she continues, her expression changing to one of… _concern_. She looks like she knows she’s about to get in trouble for something. _It’s not your fault, Anna_ —but I can’t shift my own look of apprehension.

  
“I asked if he wanted to talk to you,” she says. “But he didn’t.”

  
“What did he _say_?” The words barely escape in a hiss.

  
“Nothing, really, he just sort of… introduced himself. He seems too… _normal_ and _smart_ to be a murderer, you know? He’s… got a nice voice.”

 _  
Kristoph Gavin, I am going to destroy you_.

  
How dare he? This was my vacation, my time off with my daughter— and after a tentative week of not talking about work, suddenly it’s turned up in my living room. Not to mention the fact that if Liz hears about this—and I’m sure she will because Anna was looking at me like it was the highlight of her week with me, I’ll be in trouble. A good father doesn’t let his daughter come in contact with convicted murderers.

  
I inhale and exhale slowly, closing and opening my eyes, trying to work out what to say. This isn’t Anna’s fault. This is his—his and Parke’s. Because Parke had lied about fixing the phones and dealing with Gavin using them inappropriately—and that’s _how_ this happened.

  
“Anna,” I say quietly. “You’re… not in trouble… but—“

  
“He is?” she asks.

  
“He shouldn’t have been able to call here.”

  
“But he was smart enough to figure it out?” she asks. “Wow.”

  
“What did he say to you?” I ask again. Anna might have missed something, some subtle hint or innuendo which only I can decipher.

  
“Like I said… nothing. He said his name was Mister Gavin—and I thought it was a joke—but then he started talking about how you’ve been working with him for a few months and—“ She stops. “He did say that you’d be interested to know that he has further concerns about—Matt Engarde? Are he and Matt Engarde friends?”

  
How the hell do I explain that to her? I don’t.

  
“I see.”

  
“He asked if I was your daughter and told me that my father is very good at his job and that you’ve helped him a lot and—“ she pauses, thinking. “He was really nice.”

  
Well apparently he did have a good rapport with kids.

  
Without even thinking about it, I walk over across the loungeroom, throwing the phone from the table and off the hook. Anna stares at me, shocked.

  
“Dad?” she asks.

  
“I don’t want the phone ringing any more—“

  
“What if Mom or Alan--?”

  
“They can ring your cell.”

  
She’s looking scared, blinking at me, while I’m desperately trying to control my rage. Parke is going to hear about this as soon as I get back. Gavin has shifted into my dreams and my subconscious, he’s interrupted every aspect of my life away from him, but this is beyond the pale. _No, Anna, it’s not your fault. Yes, I’m sure he was very nice to you: he does that. He looks interesting and benign and then, weedlike, coils around you, choking off everything around you and--_

  
I look at the TV, with its cheerful menu screen for _Happy Gilmore_ , suspended in time, and the empty sofa and the bag of popcorn. This is the last day I get to spend with my daughter before she has to be driven back to the airport. I’m not letting _him_ make it end on a miserable note, even though I’m rightfully terrified.

  
“Let’s just watch the movie,” I suggest.

  
She nods silently and sits down next to me, grabbing the remote and pressing play. Thank god we have a movie to bridge years of not much contact and a completely awkward moment.

 

 

 

 

On my way into work, I think of Waverley. I think of his rage and anger, the anger he can’t quite put aside for his own professional image, I think about the little cracks forming in the surface as they did at some stage, and the physical ones, on the panelling of the door he booted when he was trying to get Gavin off the phone.

 

Thinking about Gavin on the phone makes my blood pressure rise, I’m certain of it. In the car, people are animatedly chatting on the radio about the news of the day, and amongst that news comes the possibility of a Klavier Gavin solo tour. Perky-voiced radio hosts chat about it wondering if Klavier’s record company need to add some controversy to their image after Klavier’s courtroom dealings.

 

Klavier Gavin is the last thing I want to be thinking about. The traffic is moving at a crawl, and once the chatter is over, I catch the first few bars of one of the Gavinners’ lesser known singles, _Heart on the Inside_.

 

I can feel the way my grip on the steering wheel tightens and I notice it before realising that changing the radio station is an option. _Kristoph Gavin, I am going to destroy you_.

 

I screech into the first available space I find, and storm through the front desk and the airlock. Of all the sick, depraved, _wrong_ things Gavin has done, this is by far the worst. The over-sharing and the disturbing smirks, the kissing me and groping me and the lying until I was shocked: all of those things were fine, I realised, because I’d put _myself_ in the firing line for them. Well, they were more fine. Fine _r_ than _this._

 

I stomped through the floor to see a cluster of workers bustling around a couple of inmates. I wasn’t paying enough attention to see who was involved: undoubtably Parke would tell me, and this would come moments after I’d told Parke that I was two hour late to work because I’d had to change my phone number because somehow Kristoph Gavin was able to wheedle his voice into my loungeroom and into the ear of my daughter.

 

Parke’s office is empty when I walk past, and instead of making a beeline for my own, I storm downstairs heading towards the staff room. If Parke spent more time keeping an eye on the prison than making cups of coff—

 

There’s a gasp when I slam the door open, and I hear a sentence that makes me freeze. “Gavin will _kill_ him.”

 

It’s Lily, looking in horror at the television on the wall in front of us; we’re not watching the news, we’re watching—

 

“Is this what you get up to when the floor’s slow?” I ask Parke angrily, and he barely turns to me, engrossed in the grainy prison camera footage on the screen. He doesn’t register that I’ve been away for a week. Or that I’m especially pissed off. Rather than enraging me any further, it is oddly calming, and it makes me curious about what’s holding their attention.

 

“Does this look like it’s happening under duress?” he asks, deep in thought, having ignored my comment. And maybe it’s the puzzlement in his voice which has short-circuited my anger, or the way everyone else is just staring, but I’m distracted, glancing at the participants on the screen.

 

Crescend. And Engarde. Seemingly quite amorously involved.

 

Initially it looks like they could be fighting, but no: the way they’re wrapped around one another is too slow and deliberate for fighting, and even with the poor quality of the video, I can see the hungry, purely sexual expression on Crescend’s face. Engarde looks smug, but it's a different brand of smug to his usual expression, and the look shifts to raw want when he pushes Crescend into the wall behind him, his lithe, scarred arm pinning him there, nearly elbow-deep in a tangle of black hair. His mouth descends upon the taller man’s, only fixing him even tighter to the wall, his eyes closed but his expression brutal and hungry.

 

It’s the first time I’ve ever seen Engarde look dominant with anyone. And he appears to be relishing it.

 

“Obviously the mediation worked better than we could have hoped for,” I joke, raising an eyebrow as Engarde kisses Daryan harder, his free hand forcing its way down the front of Crecend’s pants. “I guess he’s over Gavin then.”

 

“Or he’s suicidal,” Lily murmurs, as the two of them walk off-screen to appear on another.

 

Parke registers that I’m back. “How’s the week off been?” he asks with a smile. Clearly unaware of the talk I’m going to have with him later on when the two of us are alone.

 

“Not long enough,” I say tightly. “What’s been happening around here?”

 

Parke chuckles. “The pool’s completed,” he says with a shrug. “And the usual in-fighting’s been happening. Same shit, different day.”

 

“Waverley’s back,” Lily says. “And I’ve been working in Records to cover someone’s maternity leave and—“ Her smile is enough to tell me that she’s enjoying her break from Waverley and she’s prepared to be off the floor to do so. But the way she cuts herself off suggests she’s wanting to keep quiet about something.

 

“How have our resident usual suspects been?”

 

“Engarde’s been enjoying himself,” Field says. “As you can see from the video, our suspicions about him moving on have been confirmed… Gavin’s a pain in the ass, Callander’s doing everyone’s head in, Tobaye’s starting to assert himself—“

 

“Tobaye?”

 

“He’s appointed himself Gavin’s bodyguard.”

 

“I want you to have a talk to him,” Parke cuts him off with, looking at me. “There have been concerns that—“

 

“All hearsay,” Lily says.

 

“You haven’t been on the floor for the last two weeks,” Field says darkly. “There is something going _on_ there. Would _you_ trust Gavin with a juvenile offender?”

 

“Well someone did because they’re rooming together.”

 

Lily casts a look at Parke. “I trust his judgement,” she says.

 

I cannot help but raise an eyebrow. I can feel myself tensing, waiting for that private talk time with Parke.

 

But first, Tobaye.

 

 

 

“Something happen.” Tobaye doesn’t quite look at me as he’s speaking, and he fidgets awkwardly. “Something I not expect.”

 

“Would you like to talk about it?” I ask him carefully.

 

Probably not. Once again, I mentally curse Parke for organising this; Tobaye, in spite of his tender years, is just as cynical about the system and about talking as I am.

 

“I not homosexual,” he says, looking me in the eye, properly, like he’s trying to convince me of his certainty. It’s the first time he’s looked at me like that since he arrived in my office. His voice hardens, threatening. “You not talk to other people.”

 

I nod. I can already see what he’s afraid of, and unless he reports abuse or his involvement in criminal activity, I don’t have to talk to anyone. I can write reports, though. But I don’t gossip.

 

I find myself guiltily thinking about my conversations with Lauryn, trying to justify them in my mind, when Tobaye says in a soft voice, “Kristoph Gavin is _different._ ”

 

I nod. “We’re not really here to discuss other inmates—“

 

“No—no no no—I feel different about Kristoph. He is my friend. He is companion. He is… kind.”

 

Oh, god. Unholy visions of another one being caught in his web and spun into its centre plant themselves in my mind.

 

“Have you seen your girlfriend lately?” I blurt out, clumsily shifting the subject, trying to remind him that he still has a life and an identity and a future beyond what many of his fellow inmates have.

 

“Yesss,” he says slowly. “But I realise I have more strong closeness with Kristoph Gavin.” He narrows his eyes. “My girlfriend: she talk about school and friends and parties and music. Kristoph tell me about law and strategy and people.”

 

“It can be nice to have someone to talk to here,” I tell him softly.

 

“I not want to just talk,” he says. “I want… something else.”

 

“Are you _sure_?”

 

“In Borginia, homosexuality illegal.” As though this explains his change of heart towards Mr. Gavin. I don’t say anything. “I not in Borginia.”

 

I sigh. “Mr— _Machi_ —do you realise that—“

 

“I want to make Kristoph feel better,” he says.

 

“Feel better?”

 

“Fucking cunt Crescend teasing him with Engarde,” he says angrily. “Those two homosexuals make out everywhere; disgusting.” His voice is furious now, tinged with disgust and hatred. “I hate Engarde; Engarde is like they say, cum dumpster, useless waste of space.” He smiles nastily. “I cannot deal with Crescend; I get longer if I do. But I deal with Engarde somehow.”

 

And then I see it; that steely look in his eyes, perfect seriousness. He’s offering a warning, not a vague threat or machismo.

 

“You want to hurt Engarde?” I ask him, trying to keep my voice calm.

 

“I will handle Engarde,” he says. “Other inmate have nail pointer on him. He slit Engarde’s throat on my word. He want me to work for other inmate and take out Kristoph Gavin.” He smiles again. “I not doing that. I rule unit.”

 

I’m not sure if he’s talking about _now_ or in the future, but his expression, dangerous and lively, is unnerving. It doesn’t matter if he thinks he’s it and a bit now or if he plans on being that in future. And it's interesting that-- if I'm correct in assuming what he's talking about-- the mysterious invisible nail file has been mentioned yet again. Frustratingly, I don't know who has it, and I know that Tobaye isn't going to tell me, either. He’s dangerous and he understands how power works. He gives away just enough to be a vague threat.

 

Suddenly I know what Parke is wanting me to do. Dismantle a ticking time bomb. Another thing to be pissed off with him for.

 

I grit my teeth and sigh to myself. Back on the job and now I have this to deal with underneath what looks like perfect calm.

 

“Machi,” I say gently. “Has Matt Engarde done anything to _you_?”

 

“Engarde friends with my enemy. This is dog-eat-dog world here.” He shrugs. “Engarde’s friendship with Crescend is only because he wants Crescend to make Kristoph Gavin send to the crazy.”

 

I raise an eyebrow, trying to shift the conversation back to where the focus should be; on him. “How do you feel about all this?”

 

“I friends with Kristoph Gavin. He offers me advice. He treats me as equal. He takes my mind off things. We share enemies: it is strategy. Like game of chess.”

 

I wonder when Gavin will be reading _The Art of War_ with him.

 

I nod, hoping that my face doesn’t betray me at all, though suspecting it might, and that Machi Tobaye, whose grasp of English isn’t the best, may just be relying on face reading to pull through the communication gap.

 

I’m almost relieved at the idea of their alliance being about strategy, though the completely deadpan, serious way in which Machi describes it is haunting. I wonder to myself who is playing whom: Engarde or Crescend or Tobaye or Gavin, or if they all believe, deep down, that they’re playing one another and it will be a hideous struggle to see who comes out on top. Could there be some innocence and genuine emotion in Crescend and Engarde’s newfound affection for one another?

 

 _Hell no_.

 

Perhaps Crescend has just found, perhaps like Gavin has, that Engarde is easier to manipulate with displays of affection rather than with force. Maybe Engarde’s touched a weak spot in Crescend and realised that he’s like anyone else and he wants touch, release, and compliments.

And what of Gavin?

 

“So your relationship has… other benefits?” I ask tepidly.

 

“Relationship is complicated.” Machi visibly flinches in his chair. “I hear the talk about Gavin before I meet him.” And there’s a delicate smile, triumphant and yet innocent all at once. “I just not afraid of him.”

 

I just nod, wondering what Tobaye’s strategy is.

 

“Perhaps Gavin find equal in me. And me find equal in him.”

 

His expression has changed to something frightening and confident now, and _I’m_ the one finding myself flinching. I don’t need more than years of understanding to realise that Machi believes he’s on a level playing field… and to know that he’s deluding himself.

 

“I just… am not homosexual.”

 

 

 

 

“Guess _what_?” Lily bursts into my office the moment Tobaye is escorted back to the unit, her arm still bandaged,her face practically exploding with excitement. I wonder if she’s been hanging around outside my office just to make this announcement—and I wonder what would be so wonderful that she’d be this anxious to tell me.

 

“What?” I look up from a pile of papers and my computer screen, pushing my chair backwards, waiting.

 

“Well, you know how I’m down in archives?” she asks, looking at her arm like it’s her best friend.

 

“Yes.”

 

“I found the _staff_ archives,” she says. There’s a hint of guilt which runs through her face. “I—didn’t mean to.”

 

 _Yeah, right_.

 

“No, seriously,” she says. “They were unlabelled—I was looking for prisoner records which needed to ba sent to the records office—and there’s this stack of boxes beneath what looked like old records someone had forgotten about when everything became digitalised.”

 

“Oh-kay—“

 

“Anyway, the things so old that it collapses when I open it, and suddenly I’m swimming in files that need to be put back—“

 

“And… you take a peek?”

 

She frowns at me. “Something like that,” she says. “But…”

 

“Confidentiality be damned?” Who the hell am I to talk about this?

 

Her face hardens with a direct kind of seriousness. “You know what Glenn Waverley was doing before he came to work here?” she snaps.

 

“Law enforcement, I remember him say—“

 

“He was a cop,” she says.

 

“And?”

 

“Do the math.”

 

I’m not entirely sure what she’s implying, but suddenly I’m interested.

 

“Twelve years ago,” she says. “Does anything stand out in your mind?”

 

“Not really.”

 

“It didn’t for me, either,” she says, “Until I see the name of Waverley’s referee, and his letter of recommendation.”

 

I still don’t get it.

 

“Does Chief of Police _Damon Gant_ sound at all familiar to you?” she asks smugly. “Waverley used to work for the police force. Gant was his boss for a few years. Then…” She wrinkles her nose—“Well, I don’t know what happened; there seemed to be some moving around in the department, and Waverley left.”

 

“Why would you choose to work here if you’d been a cop who was friends with someone powerful?”

 

Lily shrugs. “I’m wondering about that, too. But there’s nothing on _why_ he left.” He voice lowers. “I’ll bet you the pittance in my kids’ college fund that he was a corrupt asshole. Gant probably gave him the heads up to get out before he was fired or something, and both of them managed to cover the paper trail.”

 

Well. That explains a lot. I should be happy that the suspicions I’ve had aren’t paranoia, but I’m not. My throat feels dry and blocked, and all I can do is stare at her.

 

“Do you remember another event that was part of Gant’s history, doctor?”

 

“Which one?”

 

“The one where he escaped death due to an electrical fault.”

 

I do remember that. Everyone who was here when Gant was due to be executed does. An electrical overload—or something requiring some serious maintenance—caused a failure, putting the power out and the unit on lockdown for most of the day. That morning, Damon Gant was due to be executed. Via electric chair.

 

“Do you believe in coincidences?” Lily asks me, detective-like. She’s so sure of her story she’s become almost interrogative. “Because I don’t.” And now that she’s explained, a calm comes over her, and her arm drops to her side. The one in the sling still hangs there, artificially supported. “I guess we know why Gant’s running this place,” she says. “And why people like Waverley are doing things like compromising crime scenes—“

 

“Hang on—“

 

“No—“ she says. “That pink card. That was the piece of evidence that was meant to damn Engarde, wasn’t it? I saw that card and knew it had some significance before anyone else did. Gant was well-placed in the community—is it _really_ so hard to believe that Shelly de Killer would have been amongst his contacts?”

 

“I don’t know—“

 

“Redd White’s warehouse was destroyed by _Behr_ , possibly on the word of Gant. I doubt those two met while Gant was locked up.”

 

It’s not beyond the realm of believable, but still, it’s one hell of a conspiracy. And the look on her face tells me that she’s convinced she’s hit the jackpot. Thinking it through, I’m trying to dispute it, and I find myself unable to: is it because I hate Waverley nearly as much as she does, and I want her to be telling the truth, though, or is because there truly are no other explanations for what she’s describing?

 

My mouth opens and shuts, and I remember something Waverley said to me awhile ago, about how he liked Gant because of his will to live, about his story of the spider that refused to die and couldn’t be killed.

 

The spider, that, now that I’m thinking about it, reminds me more of Engarde.

 

“Waverley wasn’t here on the morning Gant was due to be executed.”

 

Lily gives me a curious look, as though she’s wondering how much snooping I’ve been doing. “It’s not that I’ve been looking into this—“ I say, which only seems to pique her interest even more—“It’s just that a while ago, Waverley was telling me this story about how he was at home when Gant was in the chair.”  
  


Lily doesn’t look at all convinced and her face turns to a sneer. “What’s a sign of a liar?” she asks.

 

Classic things: fleeting gazes, nervous figeting, indirect eye contact—

 

“I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”

 

Her face hardens and her voice is gruff. “My ex-husband was a sociopath,” she explains quickly. “Well, I don’t know if he ever got a diagnosis, but he probably managed to sweet talk his anger management counsellor into believing that I really _was_ a _lazy fucking whore_ who deserved a broken arm and multiple stitches to the back of my head and everything else he put me through.”

 

I’m not sure what this has to do with Waverley, and in that moment, I’m stunned. Of course, I knew Lily had an ex, and I knew he wasn’t referred to in glowing terms, but—“I _know_ what a broken arm feels like,” she says with conviction. “That’s how I _know_ that this _isn’t_ broken.”

 

She doesn’t give me a chance to respond to that, shutting me off. My horror at what she’s just suggested is enough to silence me, but she continues. “The point I’m trying to make here—I know how liars _work_. My ex was a master of lies and bullshit: he’d fabricate these stories, really good ones, which made you think about some experience he’d had, and you’d be convinced that because he remembered something so clearly, he was there in the moment.” Her face is cold and stiff, like she could be in the middle of being cross-examined by her ex’s lawyer.

 

“I would find out later on that perhaps he saw an obscure news item or read a touching story in _Reading Digest_ or someone had sent him an email forward about something that was meant to be deep and meaningful. He was good at concocting stories which made you empathise with him and believe him.” She sighs. “It was all surface—and I’ve seen Waverley do things like that, only my ex was better—slimier— _nicer_ —than Waverley is.” Stoicly, she looks into me. “I can see through Waverley like he’s made of glass,” she says. “I’ve survived worse than Waverley and lived to tell the tale.”

 

The way her voice is; hard, angry, determined, makes me wonder if she’s substituting dealing with, and facing up to Waverley in a way that she couldn’t initially with her ex.

 

Have I been stooged by Waverley? Why _did_ he decide to tell me the story about the spider, anyway? I’d thought it was a final collapse, a desperate need to connect—but with the way Lily’s looking at me, I start to have my doubts. And if I was wrong about him, have I been wrong about others lying to me?

 

“I can actually back up the fact that he was on the shift when the electrical outage happened, too,” she insists.

 

“How?”

 

“The rosters are all in the archives somewhere, as are the time checks when we sign in and out.” She smiles. “It’s just a matter of finding them. And I _know_ he was there that morning. I remember seeing him.” From ten years ago? Then again, flashbulb memory can do interesting things. 

 

“Do you have the authority to do that?” I ask, I’m not disagreeing with her. I’m just not wanting to see her ruin her employment history with a burning need for revenge.

 

“No,” she says. “But others might go looking if they were to know—“ She cuts herself off. “The problem is trying to find out who would believe me and go looking.” She looks thoughtful, and then that hellbent-on-revenge expression comes back onto her face. “I think Parke would look a bit deeper.”

 

“That’s a big gamble to take.” I disagree with her. I think Parke’s up to his elbows in paperwork and stress and that a conspiracy could be sidestepped.

 

“Parke’s a good guy,” she says. She looks thoughtful. “But it’s not really about being good, is it? It’s just about dodging bullets here.” The anger returns to her face. “But _still_ : it’s not _right_. I know Gant’s here for life, that the idea of rehabilitation for most of the guys in A-wing is a joke at best—but—he shouldn’t be able to get away with this.” The unspoken part, of course, is _neither should Waverley._

 

She falls silent and then looks at me, worried and serious. “You _do_ believe me, don’t you?” she asks.

 

I nod after a long, still silence.

 

“There’s _proof_ too,” she continues, “It’s just getting someone to—“ She cuts herself off again and looks at me, her face pleading. “What would _you_ do if you were in my shoes?”

 

I don’t want to answer that. I sigh, though, my shoulders heaving. “I wouldn’t do anything.”

 

She nods silently. “I can understand that from a strategic point of view, I guess—“

 

“I believe you,” I tell her quietly. “But I think you’re going to have a hard time convincing anyone else—and with the history between you and Waverley—“

 

“It’s not about that, though,” she says. “It’s about Gant and Waverley being in some sort of corrupt alliance and—well— _shit_ —“ It’s uncommon for Lily to randomly swear in frustration like that—“If word on the unit is to be believed, Gant is responsible for the warehouse fire that landed Behr in here and—

 

“Look, I know Behr isn’t a nice guy. His number was probably up, anyway, but something doesn’t sit with me—and if Waverley handing Gant that card meant something about Engarde and Shelly deKiller, who’s to say that Gant didn’t also get those drugs in with the idea of either killing Engarde or getting him in a world of trouble?” She’s still thinking. “I mean think about it—who’d be _less_ likely to introduce drugs onto the unit than Gant? And… remember how Waverley was about me sending Engarde to the hospital—how he attacked me in front of everyone for not just throwing him in isolation when he was clearly overdosing?”

 

Good point. “Why would Waverley want to kill Engarde though?” No. Waverley is impulsive, nasty and his anger permeates everything, tainting and damaging it—but murder seems out of the question. Especially since he knows what the resulting punishment could look like.

 

She shrugs. “I dunno. Maybe he just wants to throw his weight around and he knows the whole unit can’t stand Engarde. But something is amiss here—and he’s got an unnatural aversion to the guy.”

 

Her voice is becoming faster and more convinced as she speaks.

 

“Lily,” I say gently. “I remember you telling me that you weren’t going to lose your job over one of these guys.”

 

“I remember saying that, too,” she says. “But maybe this is a whole lot bigger than that.” She frowns, her forehead wrinkling glumly. “Sometimes I think we’re just as much victims of the system as some of them are.”

 

When she leaves my office, I tap the computer in front of me to life. There’s an email from Parke. Just seeing his name puts the Waverley-Gant situation to the back of my mind and I see red. I angrily click the email open—it’s untitled—wondering what the hell he wants.

 

Thomas Moreau has been pronounced dead. His grieving family opted to switch his life support off minutes before Parke sent the message.

 

 

 

 

I don’t know if I have it in me to talk to Parke any more. My rage has died down a little; I’ve become preoccupied with the immediacy of what’s going on around the unit, with the inmates and their developments, with Lily’s believable conspiracy theory, now… _this._ And Parke hasn’t opted to come in and see me: odds are, he’s busy out on the floor or he’s dealing with things in his own way back in his office.

I look at my schedule and sigh to myself. I’ve got Matt Engarde coming in next. Another distraction, I suppose.

 

He’s looking more relaxed than he has in awhile. He’s sitting forwards in the chair, one foot balanced on his other knee, arm leaning over himself, almost _Thinker_ like. He’s no Rodin sculpture, though; he’s all angles and scarring, though the most prominent feature about him at the moment is his smirk.

 

“Hey, doc.”

 

“Hello Mr. Engarde.”

 

“I see you’ve returned to hell’s playground,” he says with a dry chuckle. He shifts slightly, leaning back a bit in his chair, his legs staying in the same position. “There have been a few changes, haven’t there?”

 

“I suppose everything is changing,” I say neutrally. “Perhaps we could talk about those changes now if you like.”

 

He chuckles lightly. “Last time you saw me and Crescend, we wanted to kill one another,” he says. “And now… well…” He rolls his eyes upwards, choirboy innocent. “ _Now_ , doc, I’m banging Crescend like he’s a steel drum and he loves every minute of it.” He chuckles again. “Maybe that’s kinda similar to when me and Gavin hooked up.”

 

 _Banging him like a steel drum_. I narrow my eyes. Really, Engarde, you don’t have to be so crude about it.

 

“Really?”

 

An alarming squeak of a thought occurs to me then, and I rub my neck, bothered by it. He never really spoke like that about Gavin. And he never looked this _smug_ about Gavin, either.

 

“ _Yeah_. Dunno where the change in heart came from, but Crescend can’t get enough of me. And I can’t get enough of him, either, now that I think about it.” There’s a glimmer of light in his eyes; the way his hair is hanging shows them both today, as well as the lumpy, scarred side of his face which he usually keeps hidden—“He’s gonna teach me how to sing.”

I frown without realising it until afterwards. Something about this sounds… _wrong_. But who the hell am I to judge? Out of the blue I remember Anna and the invasion into my livingroom and a new rage wells inside me, catching and swelling and _rocking_ like a wave about to hit the shore and wash out the landscape. I clear my throat, looking carefully at Engarde. “I do hope that isn’t a euphemism for—“

 

“No, dude,” he tells me, in a serious voice. “He really _is_ gonna teach me how to sing. But we need to ask Parke for the music room for that because we need the equipment and his guitar skills.”

 

“So he’s going to accompany you musically?”

 

“Yeah,” he says. “On guitar.” He seems enthused, shaking his head like a child who has just met a beloved idol. I don’t know what to say to him.

 

“So… you’re able to enjoy spending time with Crescend as a friend— _also_?”

I get a strange look from him; his eyes narrow and he scrunches up his nose slightly. “He’s all right,” he says with a shrug. “Funny how we both used to be famous and yet we wind up meeting in here.”

 

I nod. Something about this still seems _off_. Crescend has frequently spoken about both his heterosexuality and his desire to kill Engarde as a way of getting some sort of revenge-by-proxy upon Gavin. It doesn’t make sense for these two to be sharing bodily fluids.

 

“Birds of a feather?” I ask, raising my eyebrows. Engarde smirks at me.

 

“You wanna know something funny about it?” he asks in an undertone. “Which regularly cracks my shit up?” He’s got that devilish look in his eyes, the same one he’s had in the past when he’s spoken about his sex life with Gavin or when asking random people if they want to look at some grotesque injury he’s given himself. I can feel my body shuddering involuntarily as I wait for the punchline.

 

“I can see it’s killing him,” he says triumphantly.

 

“Who is it _killing_ , Mr. Engarde?” I already know.

 

“Gavin,” he says with a grin he can’t contain. “I’ve seen the way he stares at us, all that hatred and jealousy and revulsion. I’ve watched how he’ll see us and then he’ll put an arm around that Borg kid, that little fucker who lagged on Crescend—“

 

I’m dying to ask if Crescend has mentioned anything about that to him, but I can’t. We don’t talk about other inmates here.

He stops, and smiles to himself, swinging his feet under the chair merrily.

 

“You still miss him, don’t you?”

 

Engarde looks puzzled by the idea, as though it hasn’t quite occurred to him. “I think I understand him more,” he says slowly. “I think I get that _rush_ that he had with me.” There’s a nasty sparkle in his eyes. “Crescend lets me do whatever I want,” he says. “I could probably tell him to walk across the kitchen during dinner and suck off that Tobaye kid, and he _would_.” He pauses, the excitement not leaving his eyes. “For _me_.”

This is a change in direction for Matt Engarde. I’ve seen him relishing injuring himself, talking about getting high on pain, and grinning about outsmarting someone. I’ve seen him violent and aggressive—I‘ve been the recipient of that—but I’ve not seen him relishing _power_ like this.

 

“ _Would_ you do that?” I ask carefully.

 

“No,” he says. “I wouldn’t make him do that.” He considers what he’s saying. “I’d… lose him if I did something like that.” He looks thoughtful for a moment. “It’s almost like having my own groupie or B-grade chick following me around, except he’s a _guy_ , and he’s…” He chuckles nastily. “He’s good,” he finishes off with.

 

I don’t want hideous elaboration, but he leans in, still smirking. “I took his prison virginity,” he tells me. “And his guy virginity, too, I guess.” He flips his hair and grins at me. He could be accepting an award. He could be telling me that he’s as refreshing as a spring breeze. He could be charming the parole board. Instead, he’s telling me that he fucked Daryan Crescend. I realise that I’m feeling ill listening to him as he continues rambling into detail; somehow this is worse and more unnerving than any other session I’ve had with Engarde; I’ve lost him—I’ve been cast out from being a therapist he could open up to into an audience member, fascinated and sickened all at once.

 

I need a holiday. A real holiday, a safe one.

 

“Perhaps we could talk about something else,” I suggest half-heartedly, noticing my own lack of enthusiasm; “Because a _few_ things have changed around here Mr. Engarde.”

 

And that’s when I feel like I’m going to be sick. He barely registers, but his voice becomes clipped and dismissive, and I’m met with a sunny smile.

 

“I’m sorry, doctor,” he tells me. Refreshing as a spring breeze, cool and amused and unaffected as-- _him_. “I forgot that you found talking about sex distasteful.”

 

 

 

 

 

Parke knocks on my door and steps in while I’m trying to write a report about what I’ve just heard from Engarde. How do I say it nicely— _can_ I say it nicely—that Engarde is starting to mirror Kristoph Gavin’s disturbing behaviour?

 

When I see Parke, I stiffen, and my previous rage is restored to its former glory. I don’t say anything initially. I watch him, waiting to see if he even realises that I’m pissed off.

 

“We’ve started inquiries,” he tells me, looking as though he’s just tried arguing with someone formidable. “I have some—news—regarding Moreau’s death.”

 

He stops himself, watching me, suddenly picking up on my stillness, and his expression changes. “I’m sorry you’re coming back to all this,” he says, his voice picking up a friendly tone. “How was your break?”

 

I inhale and exhale quietly, choosing my words. “You didn’t report Gavin’s abuse of the telephone, did you?” I ask. I’m smiling, perfectly calm, completely fake. My hands are folded neatly in my lap.

 

I watch as Parke stammers through a confession—“ _N-no_.” He then look worried. “Why do you care about that, anyway?”

 

“Because,” I offer in a lying tone that suggests lack of concern, “my break period was interrupted with the knowledge that my _daughter_ received a telephone call from Mr. Gavin.”

 

Parke’s face blanches. “Shit.”

 

“Shit is right,” I say. “At first, I believed it impossible, because you, allegedly, had spoken with him regarding his use of the phone and certain rules regarding screened numbers. Apparently, that was—and I quote—“all sorted out.”” I unfold my hands, placing them on the desk. “So why?” I ask, with an exaggerated shrug, “Would someone like Mr. Gavin be able to call directory assistance from here and then be connected through to my private number?”

 

“Look,” Parke says, still pale, and edging nervously across the side of the room, his eyes still on me—“I screwed up, okay?”

 

“You knew you did the wrong thing.”

 

“I realise that,” he says helplessly. “I thought that—“

 

“You thought what, mmm?”

 

Parke’s mouth drops open, distracted and disgusted. “You sounded really fucken creepy just then.”

 

My unaffected expression changes to a glare which I catch momentarily in the reflection of my computer screen. “Parke,” I say in a low undertone, “I’m fucken _pissed_.”

 

“You sound just like him,” he says. His voice is half awed, half horrified. “You—“

 

“That’s not the point,” I snap. “Why the _hell_ didn’t you do something about the phones?”

 

“Because Gavin was _talking_ to me,” he snaps back. “Okay, I screwed up—majorly—but having Gavin calling me at home like that meant that he could let me know what was going on around here.”

 

“Through his own, perfectly objective viewpoint.”

 

“Well—no. But you know what to take with a grain of salt with him. You don’t believe him entirely. But you get— _insight_ about this place from him. He sees everything, doc, he knows what’s happening around here.”

 

“Do you realise that relying on him is—“

 

“I’m not relying on him,” Parke says. “But he’s helped me out. He knew there was contraband headed our way and upped the mail checks. We found stuff. I’ve heard what’s going on with Waverley and other staff and—“

 

“He _spoke to my daughter_.”

 

Parke’s expression changes to outright horror. “What did he say to her?” he asks, in a way that suggests that he doesn’t truly want the answer.

 

“I don’t know. And it isn’t really any of your business.”

 

I look back at the computer screen, flickering to the screensaver, and then back at Parke. “Fix the phones today,” I tell him.

 

He isn’t used to taking orders, but he’s well aware that he’s done the wrong thing. “You haven’t… reported it anywhere, have you?”

 

“Not yet,” I say. “I’m yet to meet with Gavin since my return.”

 

He gives me a Look suggesting he realises that he has one chance to fix this up. “This afternoon,” I tell him sternly, “I’ll be requiring some time off to change my telephone number, something I didn’t do over the week because I was hoping to make the most of my visit from my daughter.”

 

Parke nods.

 

“And I don’t care what comes up, but I’m getting that time off to get it sorted.”

 

“I’ll get them fixed this afternoon,” he says. “And a few other things.”

 

I raise my eyebrow.

 

“During the meeting we had earlier when I told everyone about Moreau—the meeting that happened before the investigation into his death started—we had some technical problems with one of the surveillance cameras.”

 

I nod.

 

“You know how they’re screwed into the ceiling and they have that bubble around them?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Seems the bubble can be removed somehow and the wires connecting the camera can be fried. And that too much jerking around with the camera can result in the whole thing falling out of the ceiling… obvious safety risk.”

 

“Very much so.”

 

He gives me a curious look and turns, ready to leave.

 

“By the way,” he says, “we got a confession from one of them in regards to who set up Moreau with the guys who beat him up.”

 

I nod, noting Parke’s triumph and the smile. They caught their man. Or men. Brilliant.

 

“Guess who?”

 

I shrug, not terribly interested. Moreau’s death bothers me more than the who behind it, probably some guy from one of the other units whom I don’t have much to do with—

 

I’m thrown off the trail, and stunned into disbelief when I hear the name-- “Tobaye.”

 

There’s a weird tightness which rises up in me again, but it’s not anger. It’s horror.

 

“Machi—called a _hit_ on someone?” I can hear my voice saying out loud. “Wh—“

 

“He’s in isolation now, though he’s cooperated with the police we have down here,” he says. “From my understanding, Tobaye knew him from the outside and they had a beef about something.”

 

“Moreau wasn’t a—“

 

“Nope, nothing at all on his record about offences against kids. That was my first thought, too.”

 

“Why would he--?”

 

“We’ll find out when the police finish up with him,” he says, and that’s when the worry comes into his voice. “He’ll probably be charged with conspiracy to commit murder and second degree murder… The media gets hold of this, though, and we’re going to be in some deep shit for accepting him here to begin with.”

 

“He had a couple of years left,” I say, still shocked. “Why would he?—over something so--?”

 

“I think he’s still wanting to be seen as a force to be reckoned with.”

 

It makes sense. Sure, in a disgusting, nothing-to-lose, dog-eat-dog kind of way when you can’t see far ahead of you enough to know when your release date is in sight, I guess. I don’t say anything, waiting for Parke to leave or say something.

 

Lost for words, as though he had to tell me to make what he’d just learned a reality, he nods to me. “Moreau’s funeral is next week,” he tells me. I already know that he’s going to be in attendance, that the brutal randomness of what happened to Moreau hit him somewhere. There’s a slight, un-Parke-like shudder in his voice, and he turns quickly to the door, twisting the handle and opening it to leave.

I stare at the computer screen for awhile longer. I wonder what the hell Tobaye did to manipulate a pack of men into murdering someone.

 

I'd normally feel a sense of relief at being back at work; I'm in world, my familair environment; I know how it all operates-- I'm accustomed to the prison and its special brand of crazy. But now it seems that everything has shifted on me and all I'm doing is desperately trying to keep up. _Home sweet home._  


	33. Dog Eat Dog

There are electricians on the floor the next morning, small groups of them, like little pitstop crew members, hastily fixing up the cameras before the cells are opened for the day.

 

Unlike tradesmen who work during normal hours, though, there is an unfettered busyness to them; usually outsiders who arrive during ordinary office hours work more slowly, watching their backs, like they’re half-afraid they’ll be stabbed-- or worse-- if they turn around. These guys aren’t like that; they’re nimble and they concentrate on what they’re doing; time is the essence here. The more they do before the doors are opened, the less they have to watch their backs and their tools later on. They don’t even notice us when we walk through to the staffroom.

 

“Okay,” Parke says, “I’ve got some guys in sorting out these cameras. If they have time, they’ll have a look at some of the other issues surrounding the electrical… _issues_ we’ve had here.”

I involuntarily raise an eyebrow. So he didn’t look into getting the GERA system fixed, and yet he’s looking into it _now_? A strange, sad legacy from Moreau, I suppose.

Thinking about Moreau makes me frown, and I catch Parke’s eyes meeting mine, as though he can tell exactly what I’m thinking.

“I also—have some—sad news,” he says, fading off slightly. Dozens of pairs of eyes look at him expectantly. Prison gossip has probably informed everyone about what’s happened, but this is Parke keeping us all on the same page, making it official. “Moreau—Thomas Moreau—passed away yesterday afternoon.”

There’s silence, as though a minute has been asked for in respect. It’s not at all a surprised silence.

“Didn’t his family turn off the life support?” someone asks, and Hamm hisses back, “Poor kid was a goddamned vegetable after what they did to him—“

“Does anyone know _why_?”

Parke clears his throat, as though he’s still not quite in belief of what he’s about to say—“A culprit has come forward,” he says quietly. “He’ll be interviewed and charged today, most likely.”

“Who was the sonofabitch?”

Parke sighs, looking around helplessly. I can see it in his eyes at that point; he hates the fact that he’s left delivering the news, he hates-- and can’t quite believe _what--_ the news is, and he’s worried.

“Machi Tobaye confessed to inciting the attack upon Moreau.”

“That’s bullshit,” Denham growls from behind me. “No way the silly little fuck called a _hit_ on someone.” I can hear the rage and disbelief in _his_ voice. “We all know who’s _really_ behind it, don’t we? It’s that creep who’s been grooming him like he’s a fucking—“

Before Denham can make a comparison, Parke silences him with a glare.

“We aren’t here to speculate,” he snaps. “We’re here, as it states in our contract—to maintain the security of the facility and assist inmates with their daily routines—“

“What?” Denham snaps back viciously. “A little laundry here, showers over there, programs, breakfast and _murder_?”

“How the fuck did this happen anyway?” Field asks. It’s like everyone’s just noticed him in the room, returned from sick leave, his injuries healed, and no one’s cared to fill him in.

“The cameras in the bathroom had been compromised,” Parke says with a sigh. “The entire situation shouldn’t have happened like that—we will be reviewing the pro—“

“Maybe we should review Tobaye’s status here,” someone else sneers. “Throw him in a cell with Engarde and see what happens then.”

A grotesque cackle erupts from behind me. Then another. Then the room is full of confusion and noise and bitter laughter. No one really _liked_ Moreau, but everyone knew he was harmless and no one _dis_ liked him, either.

“Guys—“ Parke clears his throat. “Let’s wait until the police do their work before we start getting crazy.” He looks to the door. “We still have a unit to run out there.”

 

The rest of the meeting is a blur. Parke was unsettled by the disruption, by the violence, by the mob mentality surrounding Moreau’s death. I can see that in his face, too: he’s a crumbling leader, and he realises it. And he can’t bring Moreau back, he can’t fix what’s already happened, he can’t undo anything. All he can do is pick up the pieces and try and regain order. To chaos.

 

 

 

Crescend sits in my office, stiff, legs crossed, eyes glimmering at me, sharp and angry, like a broken bottle.

“They say Tobaye killed Moreau,” he says gloomily, his voice deadpan and every bit as worn out as Parke’s has been lately.

“Do you want to talk about that?” I ask him, quiet and hopeful. Maybe he knows something. Maybe this is… significant. I’m not sure.

“Not really,” he says with a shrug, “But seriously, doc, that kid’s one fucken bad apple.” He turns away from me then, looking at the floor. “I realise who this is saying this,” he says, and his voice is peppered with regret. “I just think, though, seriously: this place has a nightmare on its hands now.”

I feel sorry for him. Slightly. Still, I’m staring at the man who was responsible for putting both of them inside for apparently no reason beyond material gain.

“Is there anything else you’d like to talk about?”

He rubs his left shoulder with his right hand, wincing slightly. “Not really, doc,” he says, sounding resigned. “I s’ppose these meds are kicking in. Not getting any problems any more, you know?”

I nod. Usually when they come in with no specific things they want to offload, it means they’re trying to avoid something else out there, my office reduced to a sanctuary for the duration of the session. Or there’s something festering below the surface that they lack the words or the inclination to express bluntly.

“I’m just _fucked up_ , though, man. This place is like a fucking animal shelter.”

I just nod. I’m not used to Crescend being this maudlin.

“Except, yanno, it’d be one of those no-kill places, wouldn’t it?” A slight smile from him, and he’s looking me in the eyes again. “I look at my life now: I’m, what, in my thirties now-- and everything’s a complete write-off.”

“Is there… _anything_ that makes your time here bearable, Mr. Crescend?”

He flinches. “I’m getting the music room back, according to Parke. Me and Engarde.” A bitter laugh from him. “The sacrifices you make, man.”

This is curious.

“I’ve heard that you and Mr. Engarde are…” What? Reliving some of Engarde’s early cinematic experiences? How the hell do I describe _this_ one?

He raises an eyebrow and bristles defensively. “Well, don’t always believe what you hear, doc,” he says coolly. “Engarde’s a fucking animal.”

I can tell from the disgust and hatred in his voice that that was no description of adoration or amazement. “He’s turned into _him_ ,” he snarls, suddenly letting loose. It’s like watching the side of a dam break and a flood burst forth as his voice grows faster and rougher and more frantic. “I remember when I first got here, doc—Engarde was everyone’s _bitch_. You heard the stories; he’d blow half the kitchen staff for an extra serve of potatoes and gravy. Get fucked by anyone on Gant’s orders. You saw him.” He’s disgusted.

I don’t say anything. I heard the rumours as much as anyone else did, but it’s not my place to comment.

“Now he’s… _feral_.” There’s still disbelief in what he’s saying. “He doesn’t just want to fuck you, he wants to _kill_ you while he’s doing it.” He blinks, no longer looking at me. “Of course, it’s not really him; Engarde was born a bitch and will die a bitch. I might be in here, but I can still read people like I did in my glory days.”

He leans in towards me, a sudden fear washing over him, as though speaking the words will cause something to happen. “It’s what happens when Kristoph Gavin gets into you,” he says quietly. “Everything that fuck touches goes to shit.”

“We’re not here to talk about other—“

“No, _seriously_.” He cuts me off, his voice furious, his eyes widened in rage. “Look what he did to Klavier—he fucked him up, too, but Klavier went another way. Now my former best friend has hang-ups about everything, a perfectionist complex and suicidal urges—riddle me _this_ , doc—you don’t think he’d be like that if he hadn’t been screwed up by Gavin, right?”

He doesn’t give me a chance to reply. “What about that lawyer he _trained_?” He utters the word like it’s only a cover for a toxic, disturbing cesspool. “You see the same helpless desire to prove himself, the same awkwardness, that _fear of failure_ that he instilled in his brother. And then there’s Phoenix Wright.”

Well, we can talk about non-imates, I suppose. “Did you know Wright?” I’m wondering. Was Crescend somehow involved in Gavin’s puppeteered courtroom drama?

“He helped me out on a couple of occasions,” he says. “Opposite sides of the coin, you know, but there were times when I was sure the prosecution had the wrong guy, and Wright would go for the one I suspected all along,” he says. Wright was good like that: he saw through the noise and the hype and the bullshit. He wasn’t even actively working as a lawyer; I never interacted with him much but I knew his game. He dropped clues and left… traces of things through his friends. He never lost interest, never stopped keeping an eye on what was going on, even though he had no reason to help anyone. He just… had _it_. That… whatever makes someone a lawyer thing.” As he speaks, there’s disbelief in his voice. “I had a lot of respect for him: I didn’t know he was one of Kristoph’s victims until afterwards.” He sighs, still disgusted and furious. “Just more of that fucker’s handiwork.”

“Mr. Crescend—“

He leans in. “ _Now_ he’s gotten at Tobaye,” he says. “And you can tell someone’s nature by what happens after you’ve been fucked by Gavin. If they’re a decent average schmoe, Gavin just about destroys them, they crawl from the wreckage, barely alive, only just able to pull their lives together, damaged.” He blinks, and leans in a bit closer towards me, making his point perfectly clear. “If they’re pieces of shit, though, he warps them. They turn into him. Like Engarde. Like Tobaye. The man’s godamned cancer.”

Now it’s me who’s tense at his words.

I think of what Parke told me. “ _That was really freaky_.”

“People turn _into_ him,” Crescend continues. “If you’re good, you collapse. If you’re _something else_ , you start absorbing all that evil and you start going crazy. In …another way.”

“Do you really believe that?” I ask. I’m trying to control my breathing. Crescend _was_ a detective. A man of evidence and logic, who looked beneath the surface and who didn’t give in to superstition or outward appearances.

“ _Yes_ ,” he says. He reaches over and tugs aggressively at his collar, revealing red welts on pale skin stretched over a bony collarbone. “See this?”

“That was from Engarde,” he says sharply. “You think that little bitch was fucking _biting people_ before he fell into the loving arms of Kristoph Gavin?”

“So—“

“I went along with it,” Crescend tells me in no uncertain terms. “Don’t give me some sympathetic sharing and caring bullshit, it’s not what you think it is; I’m not here because I need _crisis counselling_ or anything like that.” His expression is stoic and murderous. “Someone tries to fuck me, I’ll fucking kill them. No questions, no jury, no counselling. I’m nobody’s bitch: I look after myself, doc.”

I sigh, confronted and confused. “So why put up with Engarde doing this?”

“I wasn’t expecting _that_ ,” he sniffs. “Still, I have my reasons.” His voice lowers. “Maybe Engarde ain’t so bright and powerful as he thinks he is, you know. Maybe there’s gonna be some time when someone’s gonna deal with him, someone’s gonna put that puppy _down_.” He chuckles to himself. “Tobaye fucken hates him, too, you know?”

I knew.

“We don’t talk about other—“

“Oh, I know,” he says airily. “But sometimes it’s a good thing having friends in low places.” He stretches in the seat and gives me a perfectly nondescript expression. “I have no doubt Engarde will get what’s coming to him sometime. How much more shit of his will people put up with? He’s managed to piss off pretty much everyone—once he’s done with me, he won’t have a friend on the unit.”

I feel ill, but I’m not entirely sure why. And Crescend has changed his tone, now, too: he’s suddenly an open book wanting to reveal all.

“Yanno, White knew him on the outside?” he asks randomly. “He was in business with some of the big names, and White had been cluey enough to realise that Matt Engarde was the same _Matt_ without a surname who’d been doing pornos since he was a teenager.” The sneer in his voice is clearly evident now. “He was so godamned pathetic that he’d had his people paying off White to keep his dirty little secret for years—“

Why the complete and utter loathing towards Matt Engarde? Well, given the injuries he’s just shown me, it’s fairly obvious, but why bother pretending things were rosey with him? _Why the act, Mr. Crescend?—_

He’s smiling as he continues. “Engarde was a bitch and a slut from way back when,” he says triumphantly. “Though from what I always heard, _this—“_ he touches his shoulder again, almost randomly— _“_ is something of a change of heart for him. He was just a bitch before Gavin fucked him. He’s get fucked by umpteen guys all at once, he’d pretty much do anything for a buck and some fame.” Crescend smirks, as though revenge for Engarde’s aggression towards him came a few years earlier. “He wasn’t some porn _star,_ likePlan or something, hewas just a _thing_. Even Plan used to have a laugh with Gant’s friends when Engarde was being fucked by Crescend; Plan used to call him pain slut, said he did even worse stuff for a buck on the outside. I don’t even know who’d want to watch that sort of shit: what I heard from them was _nasty_.” He stops, silent, and the smirk fades into something almost fearful. _“_ Now he’s turned into something dangerous.”

I clear my throat. “Mr. Crescend,” I offer. “We really aren’t here to discuss other inmates.”

He settles down, having said his piece. “Okay,” he says, quite casually compared to the concentrated hatred I was seeing from him earlier. “ _Fine_.”

I nod, wondering what else we’re going to discuss, but clearly Crescend hasn’t _quite_ finished.

“He’ll get what’s coming to him,” he says. “All bitches do, doc, and when shit hits the fan, I’m just gonna sit back and laugh at his sorry ass.”

 

 

Despite Crescend’s reassurance that there are no valentines between himself and Engarde, I can’t help but wonder if it’s all a cover for something else. It bothers me, and once he’s back on the unit and my office is empty, I re-read Crescend’s file with an eye for anything that might stand out. I re-read Engarde’s. Crescend _was_ correct in his observation that prior to his experience as an inmate, it appeared that Engarde hadn’t really shown any predilection towards sadism. He’d been selfish and arrogant and thoughtless, yes, he’d shown complete indifference towards people he’d used, towards his dead ex-girlfriend, towards his own family, towards his long-suffering manager—and a curiousity about the method employed by the assassin who’d murdered his competition—but nothing outright sadistic: he’d never really bloodied his hands, and he’d lacked the glee in creating bloodshed which I’d noticed was characteristic of the typical criminal sadists I’ve worked with before.

 

So, was Crescend right about Gavin _changing him_? It looked like it from a hazy difference, but the idea seemed too ridiculous, too out of sync with the Gavin I’d known. Yes, the man was manipulative and charismatic, no, he couldn’t fundamentally change anyone’s character. The idea reeked of superstition and affording him much more power than he actually had. It was a clever illusion, being able to convince others that you had power in a place where you had none, to make yourself something of whispers and fear, but Gavin… was still only human.

And anyway, with Crescend’s revelation about White’s blackmail scheme (while surprising, it made perfect sense): perhaps there always _had_ been another side to Matt Engarde, which had lain dormant behind his breezy nature and boyish good looks. Maybe it was a secret so well hidden, so deeply buried in the past, that no one even considered it. Perhaps White wasn’t just hiding involvement in pornography, but something even more disturbing for a national hero and beloved kids’ television idol.

Still wondering about that one—and realising with White’s death and the inconveniently destroyed storage facility-- I’d never find out the truth, most likely, and turned my attention back to Crescend’s history and case file. A very close, well-documented, and widely publicised friendship with his bandmate and the fellow teenage prodigy, Klavier Gavin. Two or three—depending on the year—non-descript bandmates—the Gavinners was essentially Gavin and Crescend’s project—kids with dreams of law and order and musical talent—and, of course, a particular flair for theatrics, and the universal teenage dream of rock stardom. They either woke up from the dream, growing into a stable and time-consuming career with the cops, courts, customs or corrections, it seemed, and quietly disappearing from the rock scene

.

Nothing about this, though, was particularly telling or exciting. No familiar names. Crescend had reported years ago, in an unimpressed sneer, that he was the only one who could handle Klavier’s diva personality and obsession with “everything being perfect.” Frowning, looking at those words in his file, and remembering what Crescend told me only moments ago-- _You don’t think he’d be like that if he hadn’t been screwed up by Gavin, right?_ , I had no doubts about where his perfectionism came from.

There had been a couple of short-lived relationships in Crescend’s life, girls who seemed to be as non-descript and exciting as the background members of the Gavinners. Crescend didn’t seemed interested in the flirtations of groupies, and he avoided drugs like the plague, all fitting and perfectly understandable for someone in the public eye and a policing role. But the question still lingered for me: was there another side to Daryan Crescend? Did White hide and store secrets for him as well? It _could_ have been the case, though it seemed highly unlikely.

Perhaps there was some deeper connection, something _else_ going on with Klavier? In theory, it fitted together nicely, helped along by Klavier’s bisexuality. Of course, Crescend had never said anything about a relationship of that nature with Klavier in the past. I re-read over his notes for any casual mention I may have missed, any possible double-entendre or awkwardness or suggestion offering clues to hidden depths. Nothing. On paper, at least, Crescend is heterosexual.

 

But perhaps—I stretch my arms as I begin to siphon through more paperwork—that’s just what Crescend’s just wanted everyone to think. Crescend’s not stupid and never has been naïve. He’d have known before coming here that any outsider status—especially when added to his background of being an officer of the law—would have made him stand out as though he had a target painted on his back. Few managed to pull off being homosexual in prison—unless, of course, they were the Wellingtons or the Engardes-- essentially victimised and at the mercy of an indifferent system, though utilised by more entrepreneurial types like Gant in return for protection from the unknown or more ruthless. Prison sex politics could be remarkably simple; if you were offering it willingly or on the receiving end, _you_ were the deviant. If you were anyone else, you were merely making do.

So why then, would Crescend—who’d already been a loner from his arrival—and who appeared to have no problem with being one—suddenly, after years, decide to out himself in such a manner with another outsider—and one with Engarde’s volatile reputation? Memories of the video footage rush through my brain: Matt Engarde shoving him against the wall with such force that Crescend’s bony frame seemed liable to snap; Engarde quite obviously dominating him, apparently unconcerned about whether or not Crescend was as enthusiastic about the gesture.

I try to recall Crescend’s expression from the footage. I can’t. My focus at the time was on Engarde’s apparent shift in character and his relish, the strength and force in his movement. In retrospect, maybe I shouldn’t have been so surprised: in spite of his “bitch” status and low social standing amongst the inmates, I’d seen first hand that he was difficult to restrain when in fight mode.

I give up, resorting to coffee, walking past the music room and smiling to myself as I think of it being used again. Perhaps music is the last thing left to save Crescend from having nothing to live for.

 

 

“I called hit.” Tobaye shrugs. “Go ahead. _Charge me_.” He sits in the chair, relaxed, feet forward, forearms resting on the arm rests; right elbow bent, his chin resting on his hand. Somehow the position, even on a man that size, looks entirely fake, like he’s acting. He’s Machi Tobaye, child prodigy, pianist extraordinaire, not an organised crime boss sounding like a bad film cliche. I’d like to think that beneath the strained muscles and the hardened expression on his face, he’s as scared as hell. But he’s now got nothing left to lose, no rock bottom to drop to.

“You know I have nothing to do with that, Machi,” I tell him quietly. “You are, however, free to discuss anything—“

He moves his hand from his chin and examines his bitten-down, decidedly non-pianist fingernails. “Moreau have information which damage my friend,” he says. “Moreau talk. Moreau stupid.”

I’m curious even though this—this confession which belongs in a police interview room—has nothing to do with me. Perhaps I’m the one person Machi can trust: I can’t see him trying to get under my skin and reveal particular things to me for any Gavin-like reason. Once again, I think about Crescend’s idea that he’s able to reshape people. _No._

“Did you tell anyone else about this, Machi?”

He frowns. “I told police what I had to,” he says. “In Borginia it best to stick to facts. I take blame here, no death penalty.” He shrugs.

I’m not his lawyer—nowhere near, but I’m compelled to ask him something. “Do you realise, though, Machi, that your sentence will be increased if you are found guilty of murder? That you’ll spend more time in here?”

He stares at me. “Maybe this is what I want,” he says. “I can play piano again.”

The idea of trying to tell him that he could play piano on the outside occurs to me, though I’m sure he’s heard it before. I just sigh, and wait for him to pick up the conversation. “I plea bargain,” he says. “I make deal with lawyer who makes deal out of courthouse.” He’s so ridiculously casual about it, or at least he’s trying to look like he is, and yet I know somewhere underneath the muscles and the bad juvie tattoos and the hardness in his eyes, there’s just a vulnerable, scared little boy wanting to feel a sense of power. I want to pick him up and shake him and admonish him for being so stupid and for allowing Kristoph Gavin to somehow—how? I have no idea—ruin another life. I wonder what Machi knows about Kristoph’s past. I wonder how he’d feel about his new friend then.

I try to focus on the positive, aware that the damage has already been done. “So you can use the music room?”

He smiles at me, and I see a ghost of the innocent little boy who made random people go “Awww” on court TV. “Yes,” he says. “I use with Crescend.”

“Does that worry you at all?”

“No,” he says, and his face twists into a smile. “I defend myself if need.”

“I’m sure you won’t need to.” I wish that I could sound convincing to either one of us, but I don’t. If everyone believes that they’re safe, no one will view anyone else as a threat. Therefore, the theory goes, there will be no violence. No one believes any of it. And if they do, they learn quickly that safety is only achieved by making friends with the right people or brutal action.

He shrugs again. “In this place, you don’t be sure about anything.”

“I’m sure you will enjoy getting to play the piano again.”

Machi smiles, and it chips away a little bit of my soul because it’s then I see the childlike innocence, the fact that he is still a young man growing up, a teenager, who’s had an utterly strange life and who just wants the simple pleasures of being able to play some music, to indulge in a talent he possesses.

“I have nothing left,” he says. “Girlfriend visiting no more. She tell me scared of guards and small room.” He points at his arm. “She scared of these.” I’m not sure if he’s referring to the muscles beneath his shirt or the childlike drawings etched into his skin with glass and ballpoint ink. His smile is sad. “In Borginia, many hungry. I still have more than them.”

I don’t know much about Borginia, but I wonder what he witnessed in his home country. Maybe the survivor in him was awakened there rather than in juvie. Imprisonment may have merely awakened the violence.

“I have piano, I have music, I have shelter. I have no death penalty. And I have Kristoph Gavin.” He smiles at me. _One of these things is not like the other_ , I think to myself. I feel a pang of sorrow for him, then, his life reduced to the few things he considers lifelines, things to keep him sane. I’m disturbed by his breakup affecting him so little, and I remember his last visit with his girlfriend, cynically wondering if Waverley was the guard who scared the girl.

“Perhaps you need to consider what you’ll have when you are released?” I ask him carefully, softly. I want to say something about his age, his likelihood of rehabilitation, but somehow, that seems entirely condescending. .I blink, looking at him. This is a man who has gotten worse since entering the system, not better.

“I have plane to Borginia,” he says. “I national embarrassment if remembered. Lawyer try to get green card. But I have nothing in America.”

I don’t know how to answer this. I don’t know enough about the legalities surrounding his imprisonment in America or about the chance of him getting citizenship.

For the first time, I notice him looking worried and frantic, and a part of me can see through his pain and confusion with the legal system—and I can see why a man like Gavin would look like a helpful ally, particularly if Gavin knows anything about international law.

Strangely, and almost a second, if that, after the concerned look on his face, Machi smiles at me, sunny and innocent. “I not think of bad times,” he chirps. “I think of playing piano. That I can do.”

 

 

 

“Something’s brewing,” Parke says ominously. “There’s too much changing around here, too quickly. And we haven’t had a major incident in—“

“What?” I ask. “A suicide, a man being beaten to death, assaults on workers, assaults on _vistors--_ not that exciting?”

Parke doesn’t look like he’s in the mood for humour, and he glares, as though I’ve dared him to speak the dangerous four-letter word which everyone avoids. “We haven’t had a riot,” he says. “Not since those crazy fucking days when Atmey was trying to run things around here and we had the drug gangs throwing their weight around.” He says it as though the cessation of drug gang activity on A-unit is a success. “You know what I mean—our powerbrokers are recruiting.”

“Gant’s been quiet,” I tell him with a shrug. For the first time, Parke’s worried, and I’m not. I’m wondering which one of us has the failing intuition. Of course Parke’s correct, there will be a riot at some stage in the future, because riots are inevitable. But I remain unconvinced that a riot will occur because of these people.

“It’s not Gant I’m worried about at the moment,” he says. “After the mess with the _other_ Gavin brother, he’s keeping himself quiet.”

“You don’t think the drugs which killed Plan had anything to do with Gant?”

“No telling,” he says, though he looks worried. “I’ve considered it; there’s nothing I can pin on Gant any more than any of the others. Surely, if they’re correct in saying that Shelly deKiller was involved, anyone could have contacted him. Hell, Engarde could have sent those drugs in with the sole purpose of killing Plan.”

I don’t say anything, but just give him a puzzled look.

“That doesn’t make sense, either,” he continues. “I know this. The thing is, I also know Engarde; he’s smart enough to know that taking a few men out of the equation changes the power dynamics around here; a bit of chaos makes things _interesting_ in his mindset.”

“He seems fairly calm right now.”

“That’s the other thing,” Parke says. “I don’t know what’s going on here with Crescend, but it’s completely out of character for him. And I have a theory about that, too—“

I raise an eyebrow.

“I think he’s going along with this great act because he wants to get revenge on Gavin.”

There’s something I hadn’t really considered. Especially since Engarde still seemed concerned about his old… associate.

“Do you think Engarde would conspire against Gavin though?”

“Sure. He’s a vengeful little prick. He holds grudges. You’ve said it yourself when you were telling me about that personality disorder he’s got happening: he thinks in black and white. He either loves you or despises you: there’s no middle ground. Gavin rejecting him was an insult.”

Makes horrible sense, and I’m strangely proud of Parke, who doesn’t quite doubt what I do but doesn’t quite subscribe to it—remembering what I’d told him about personality disorders.

“Crescend was smart enough to figure that out and I’m thinking Gavin’s got an invisible target on his back. He mediated with Tobaye, and that was successful. I’d trust those two together on _day leave_. But Engarde and Gavin—or Crescend and Gavin? Not so much.”

“Well, I suppose it’s a good thing that Gavin’s got Tobaye to act as bodyguard then, isn’t it?” I frown. Parke’s expression mirrors mine.

“ _He’s_ dangerous,” he says. “Word’s travelled about the kid-- one of the managers from E-wing was telling me he’s been talked about over there, too. Men twice his age shit themselves when they hear about him. And if I had to put my money on anyone if it was him versus Crescend and Engarde, I’d back him in an instant. He doesn’t fight like most of the others—he’s calculating. He’ll do more damage with a single punch than most of the others could with their whole body.”

“So why would he call a hit on Moreau?”

Parke sighs. “Poor kid,” he mutters—“I dunno. Moreau had nothing to do with any of this, though Tobaye’s still calmly stating that he was responsible for that. He’s said it’s about the phones.”

Parke flinches at the word ‘phones’, and I feel decent enough to stay on the subject. “Do you think he’s _actually_ protecting anyone? Did he mention anything about Gav--?”

Parke looks at me. “If he’s protecting _anyone_ , it’s got to be Gavin. But why Gavin would want Moreau dead—and why Gavin wouldn’t do it himself?—it doesn’t add up.”

“I agree with you.”

“Maybe Tobaye took things into his own hands, but that’s a bit extreme for him. He’s more calculated than that, and not particularly obsessive about—“

“We’re back to square one on all of this. I just don’t get it—and it’s usually after something chaotic and random that riots crop up; while we’re putting out small fires, there’s planning and alliances in the background, and then— _bam_ —we’re no longer running the place.”

I laugh dryly. “Tobaye says he’s running the prison.”

“Oh—yeah. I’ve heard that one, too. He’s got at least two units who are fans, at least.”

“Fans or fearful.”

“Yeah,” Parke says. “That.” He sighs again. “And Tobaye’s _talents_ haven’t gone unnoticed around here. I’ve seen Wellington trying to cosy up to him. I suppose now that Tigre’s gone, the Gant group needs some more muscle.”

“I thought Wellington was more interested in …other abilities.”

I’m vaguely amused. “Well, Wellington can keep trying but I don’t think it’s going to be successful.” As Tobaye said to me—he’s not homosexual.

“Another theory,” Parke says. “Gant’s not a young man any more. Sure, he’s fitter than most of the younger ones, but he rules by intimidation and plays on fear rather than actively doing anything to anyone. And I wouldn’t call Wellington particularly socially naïve: he can read people and situations well—the guy _was_ a small time conman when he was out.”

I just nod to that.

“I can’t see Wellington doing anything to Gant, but we all know the group’s losing members, and if Wellington just bides his time, he’d like to think he’d be next in charge if Gant were to succumb to well, old age, right? And Wellington realises he’ll have competition for that spot. Hence the need for Tobaye’s muscle. Wellington can’t run shit while he’s by himself.”

“So you think we have a potential riot on our hands because of Tobaye?” I’m unconvinced.

Parke gives me a strange look then. “Not that obvious,” he says. “I just think that someone’s going to be smart enough to notice shit hitting the fan at the other end of the unit and to capitalise on a chaotic situation and a bunch of distracted managers.”

I don’t know what to say to that. Perhaps Parke’s correct, and I’ve become lost in the details at the expense of being able to analyse the bigger picture.  
  
  
  
Of course Parke’s concern about a potential riot has me on edge. And I wonder, as I walk through the unit as I’m about to leave, watching cameras getting repaired and a search being undertaken through some of the main areas—whether the changes—the increase in security, the fixing of things—is only a means of stirring the pot. Change means tension here; people become so used to the way things are that deviations are an invitation to chaos.

I still don’t quite believe Parke. Perhaps it’s just his pessimism, or his understanding of how long it’s been since the last riot, or perhaps, paradoxically, it’s the surreal adrenaline rush that the drama and the violence of this place gives people. The people who work here are an unusual breed: they applied for the job to begin with; then, they’re the ones who’ve stayed. The turnover is high in the initial stages, but the ones who stay tend to be in for the long haul. Something about the environment appeals to them in some way. Maybe they crave that chaos and uncertainty, perhaps they need to run on high alert and to be on their toes and waiting for something to happen. I’m not sure. But I know they either have it in them to work here—and stay here—or they don’t.

But the truth hits me as I consider it: I’m a part of this. I sacrificed a marriage and my family for this place. For some reason or another: maybe I’ve become addicted to the chaos and the violence like the rest of them. I’d be out of work or very bored if the inmates didn’t have problems and need to see me. Instances of drug-seeking inmates—or inmates like Wellington wanting me to stretch the rules from them pop into my mind. I’ve always found those sessions dull and a waste of time. My work here relies on people being unstable and damaged, there’s a chase, there’s a desire to help, to retain order to a scattered and damaged mind.

Ten years, and I can’t imagine my life without this job, and with that comes a level of chaos and stress which burns people out. Or they’re like Parke; they assimilate, they learn to thrive within it. The chaotic and abnormality of this small world becomes a part of them; and they find they couldn’t do anything else, from a career point of view.  

Maybe Lily was right, and we’re just as damaged as the people we’re meant to be helping.

I’m not sure that I like that about myself.

Actually, when I consider it a little bit more, I wonder if my behaviours would be noticeable enough to earn me a diagnosis.

 

 

 

Tobaye is calm, cooperative and confessional. He spends two days in solitary confinement and then being ferried to court, facing conspiracy to murder charges. He receives another ten years on top of his sentence, which makes want to scream, especially when I learn through Parke that his confession appears to have been made to make him look tougher than he is. According to his lawyer on court TV, he was angry because he knew that Moreau had information on how to use the telephones to call anywhere, and he had wanted to call friends and family back in Borginia. According to his lawyer, Tobaye, in his rage, had told some of the organised crime guys about the telephone, and he’d asked them to get the information from him.

According to the lawyer, who spoke entirely for him, he did not expect that to end in murder.

According to the limited video footage, no one person could be held responsible for his death, and Tobaye did not know that his words would result in murder. His voice, his face, even his demeanour, somehow all appearing more harmless and childlike and… innocent. I wonder just how cynical and hardened I’ve become when I realise that the jury might have been won over but I have not. Tobaye has learned that in some cases, to appear vulnerable is to survive.

 

He returns to the prison quietly and calmly with a couple of others who are sent around to various wings—drug dealers, a wife basher, two con men and an armed robber. No one new arrives onto A-wing.

 

It doesn’t stop the current A-wing inmates from watching and waiting though, settled around the unit like vultures circling the sky waiting for the recently deceased. When they realise it’s just Tobaye, some glance up to his cool indifference, and some talk amongst themselves. Engarde glares knives at him. Gavin looks up briefly from his copy of _Of Human Bondage_ and smiles ever so slightly as though awaiting a visit from an old friend. Across the other side of the unit, I notice Crescend mimicking Engarde’s expression, and that’s when the quiet, discontented ritual begins.

 

Field nudges me. “Have you seen this?” he asks. “It was one thing having two creeps on the unit, then we get Callander, now we have _five_.” I don’t reply, pretending to look down at my clipboard of names.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Gavin quietly place his book down, and walk over to Tobaye. As he does, Engarde and Crescend move closer together. Gavin places a friendly hand, a gentle touch, on Tobaye’s shoulder, quietly asking him something.

Engarde pretends not to notice and turns to Crescend. His gesture is more obvious, more amorous and more forceful. From where I am standing, Tobaye and Gavin are merely having a quiet word. Crescend and Engarde look as though they’re engaging in subtle, brutal foreplay. Gavin and Tobaye are friendly and casual, though I notice Gavin cast an almost curious gaze in Engarde’s direction. From the angle I’m standing at, I cannot see his face any more. Engarde yanks back roughly at Crescend’s hair, exposing his slender neck for a kiss.  

I glance down at my clipboard, and notice Field do the same. It’s awkward watching this sort of thing. It’s awkward when you become you’re aware that you’re watching it, and anyway, it’s time for Parke to bring my client up for a session.

 

Amusingly, perhaps, the client is Kristoph Gavin.

 

 

I haven’t seen Gavin for what feels like a long time. Between the buzz of the workmens’ drills, still fixing the faulty video cameras, Thomas Moreau’s funeral and the small opening ceremony for the pool and Parke’s meetings about delegating designated “pool attendants” (Gant was pleased with his role and that the pool was back in order; it seemed that Waverley’s influence earned the Gant crew and some new inmates the privilege of staffing and maintaining the pool and safety equipment), Lauryn emailing me to apologise for the lack of contact and say she was heading off to Europe for work-related business for three weeks, the random news reports suggesting that Shelly deKiller had been sighted around various areas, and a brief couple of days off for Christmas (which I spent, uneventfully alone) and watching the happenings around the unit, somehow Gavin has lost himself in the noise.

I had barely the time to wonder about him as anything more than a part of a larger community, but now he’s in my office, peering at me curiously, and my attention is back on him, focussed and wondering.

 

“Hello, doctor.” He pushes those ugly prison-issue glasses up his nose and tilts his head slightly. “It feels like a lifetime since we’ve last talked, doesn’t it?”

All my feelings about his invasion of my privacy, my living room, my _daughter_ come back to me, and I still myself, wondering if he’s _hoping_ for some kind of a reaction from me. I’m not giving it to him.

“It certainly does, Mr. Gavin.”

He offers me one of those pleasantly sunny smiles. “There have been many changes on the unit, mmm?”

“Maybe you’d like to talk about those changes with me?”

“Perhaps they’re superficial,” he says coolly, like he’s reconsidering what he’s just said. “There is an old saying, isn’t there?-- the more things change, the more they remain the same.”

“Perhaps you’d like to talk about _that_?”

There’s a flicker of irritation through his face, like he’s just happened to see a fly buzzing around the room, but it vanishes as quickly as it appeared. “Is everything all right?” he asks. For a moment, I’m convinced of his sincerity. Then I find myself trying to imagine how this must have felt for other men in his life—Apollo Justice, Phoenix Wright, Klavier Gavin—“

“Everything is _fine_.”

“Really?” He’s concerned. Or he’s able to appear concerned, anyway. It’s the convincing concerned which can lead young assistants into falling in love and destitute down-on-their-luck disgraced attorneys into bed. It’s so beautifully simple and so devastatingly effective.

I clear my throat. “We’re here to talk about you, Mr. Gavin,” I tell him. “Perhaps you’d like to talk about these changes.”

“As I said before, not much seems to have _really_ changed,” he says. “On the surface, there have been shifts around the unit, and I suppose things _have_ changed significantly for Machi Tob—“

I suck my breath in involuntarily, and it’s enough to make him stop, mid-word. He looks at me with interest.

“I imagine you saw the decision the jury made,” he says. “Guilty of conspiracy to commit murder,” he continues, as smoothly and as unaffected as someone reading out names at a particularly dull graduation ceremony. “Another ten years added to his sentence. Anyone would think he’s making himself at home here.”

The urge to scream, to _shake him_ grabs me, but with Gavin-esque control, I don’t do anything. I stretch my fingers between one another, listening to the soft _crack_ of ageing bones.

“How does that make you feel?” I ask. “As someone who has been invested in the future of young people in the past?”

He smirks at me, only slightly. “I don’t quite understand what you’re asking me.”

“Well—you were mentoring young Justice—and Klavier—and—“ I’ve blocked myself into a corner.

“Tobaye was brought here as an adult,” he says coolly. “Tobaye knew from early on that misbehaviour here would result in punishments befitting an adult. I suppose I am pleased for his sake that these no longer include death.”

“How do you feel about Tobaye now?”

He shrugs. “No different than I did when I first encountered him. Tobaye is an associate.”

I raise an eyebrow at him. “In what capacity, Mr. Gavin?”

Perhaps there is an edge to my voice suggesting something much darker, but Gavin shakes his head. He looks thoroughly amused by the possible implication of my words.

“I enjoy his company,” he says. “It’s simple, though Tobaye himself is not. He’s… an anomaly, in the way that Justice was—independent from an early age, yet still finding out who he really is, neither man nor child—“

“It has been noticed that the two of you have been somewhat closer over the last couple of weeks.”

“And?” he asks. “I have few contacts in this setting, and many of my former associates have turned away from me.”

I don’t say anything to that. I think of the way he smirked, unapologetically, as he drove the spikes in deeper to his younger brother, how he showed no remorse to Phoenix Wright and Miles Edgeworth, how he was still asking Apollo Justice to breach prison regulations on his behalf, and then Lily’s haunting words. _It’s obvious the kid’s still in love with him_. Oh, _what_ awaits Tobaye? What sophisticated social manoeuvring will Gavin level at him?

“Perhaps they had reason to,” he says, folding his hands in his lap. “Perhaps, on some subconscious level, I wished to push them away.”

I’m thrown off-guard. This sounds like a confession of sorts, a private glimpse into Gavin’s complex and confusing clockwork.

He straightens out in his chair, clearly amused at the change in my expression. I could never play poker with the man. “Or maybe I was just amusing myself,” he says. He leans in again, eyes on mine. “Though—you liked that, didn’t you, doctor? A rare peek inside the house of Kristoph Gavin?” A light chuckle from him.

“Mr. Gavin, I’m not here to play games.”

“Nor am I,” he says.

I don’t believe that. But I don’t know what to say.

He clears his throat, bored. “Tobaye,” he says again. “Tobaye is company. Tobaye is—in his own strange way—affectionate towards me. Perhaps it’s true, doctor—all men have needs.”

Oh _god_. Don’t go there, Gavin.

For some reason, I can still talk to him, still compelled and fascinated—albeit repulsed—by his antics, but I think Tobaye’s fundamental innocence is still obvious to many of us. Maybe he has most of the prison population fooled, due to his size and strength, but for the workers, for people like Parke and I, at least, Tobaye is little more than a boy playing in a dangerous adult world of dog-eat-dog. He still has the nervous clumsiness of teenager. And Gavin, unfortunately, can see that too.

“ _Companionship_ ,” Gavin corrects me, like he can read my mind and see the horror I’ve envisioned. “I think all men, even those like myself—require some level of interaction with others.”

“Companionship comes in many forms,” I suggest.

“If you are implying that Tobaye and I are engaged on a more _base_ level, as say—“ He idly twirls a finger in the air as though trying to find a comparison, though I already know which one he’s going to make. Crescend and Engarde—

“Daryan Crescend and Matt Engarde—“ He can’t quite hide the revulsion and confusion in his voice—and had I placed money on that, I would be a rich man—“Then you would be mistaken. To put it crudely, I have no sexual attraction towards Tobaye, and from my understanding he has none towards me.” He shrugs. “I understand there are rumours circulating the prison, I’m allegedly some sort of Don Juan, I can seduce absolutely _anyone_ — _that_ isn’t true, mmm?—but I assure you that is not the case.” He chuckles to himself. “Engarde came to me willingly, as I said before. Tobaye just enjoys some company with a non-judgemental mind. And of course, a game of chess and some light reading every now and then.”

I wonder if he’s truly oblivious to the adoration Tobaye has for him. Or if he’s just bluffing.

I rest casually across the desk, watching him. “How _do_ you feel about Engarde’s… new partnership?” I ask.

His face screws up for a moment; again, I’ve hit a nerve. And he knows that I’ve seen it.

“I don’t like betrayal, doctor,” he says.

“No plans to kill him?” I ask, possibly too easily, and with too much of a smile on my face. It’s morbid to joke about this sort of thing. I think of Phoenix Wright and Miles Edgeworth and the tainted lubricant, designed to kill them should they have had sex. I suck my breath in again.

Gavin laughs. It’s not a cackle, but it’s a true laugh, his eyes twinkle and he’s smiling. “That,” he says, “Was unprofessional. Though amusing.” He pauses, still smiling. “Though no: I have no desire to harm either of them. If anything, it’s quite interesting to see Engarde in this position.”

 _Yeah, Mr. Gavin: you trained him well_.

“I wonder which of the two initiated it,” he says vaguely. “From my understanding Crescend is heterosexual. Or, at least, he was when I knew him on the outside.”

I don’t say anything in response.

“Perhaps circumstances have changed him,” he continues, “Though I think not. More likely it is that Engarde has learned to spot a conquest.” He smiles again. “There is no logical reason for Crescend to have initiated things. I suppose I should be pleased for Engarde, shouldn’t I?”

Again, I remain silent.

“In that case,” he tells me, casual and sensible, “I’m pleased for Engarde. I wish him nothing but the very best.”

I glimpse down at Gavin’s file, irked with his games and monologue and ability to always present himself in such a harmless—yet disturbing-- light. “We’ve been meeting like this for some time.”

“And?” he asks. There’s a shudder in his movement. “Are you thinking of terminating your sessions with me?” He looks curious and slightly worried.

Well, _am I?_ I _have_ thought about it for a long time. And something always pulls me back. Gavin seeing me in this environment is as inevitable as medication, as institutionalisation, as lockdown for the night. As death was months ago.

“I’m just wondering if you feel you’ve made any progress working with me?”

He looks at me quizzically. “I suppose I’m a most unobjective judge in this case,” he says. “Others will see changes in me that I am unaware of because they occur so slowly. They’re like weight loss or developing a skill; one does not notice the subtlety with which they occur.” He leans forward and pushes his glasses up. “Do _you_ feel you have made a difference?”

“I’d like to think so,” I tell him.

“Then it would be fair for you to believe that you have, then.” Another smile. “I appreciate my time with you, doctor. It’s one of the few moments of respite I get from the crazy zoo out there, another chance to converse with a likeminded individual.”

I bristle at his description. I’m nothing like the man. I will never be anything like him. Though if his ego wants that reassurance, I suppose I’ll allow it.

“I do have something to tell you, actually,” he says, smiling slightly.

“Oh?”

“I received some mail today.”

I start assuming the worst. Fanmail from some lost soul wanting to connect with a killer? A plea for his hand in marriage from a lonely, clueless woman? It’s happened before. Did he sign up for the prison penpal program?

“Klavier sent me a birthday card.”

Another murmured. “ _Oh_.” After all their chaos and drama, and Klavier still wants some sort of connection with him?

“That’s… nice.”

“It was interesting,” he continues. “After our last interaction, I wasn’t expecting him to contact me.”

“I can imagine that,” I say quietly. “How did you feel when you saw the card?”

“Uncertain,” he says. “There was a rather long letter included. Apparently he and Apollo are looking at buying a house together and getting a _dog_.” He chuckles, though it’s bitter and uncanny.

“A dog?” I ask. Memories of ill-fated Vongole and the program he essentially destroyed come back to me. But he cared to mention that one detail—surely there were other things Klavier wrote about? I was never certain about how Gavin felt about animals, and up until then had been content to believe that Vongole was just another trusting individual he’d exploited for his own amusement.

“Anyone would think my brother is trying to spite me in advertising what he knows I cannot have,” he says. “A relationship sturdy enough for home investment and a canine companion.” He shrugs. “I’m wondering if I should write back to him.”

“That’s your decision to make,” I say vaguely. I’m tuning out again; what on earth is it about this man that draws us in? From the small window outside my office I can see a team of workmen walking past to adjust and repair the video cameras.

He looks at me, realising I’m distracted. “Is everything all right, doctor?”

His voice is perfectly calm, and I feel myself shudder involuntarily. Gavin smiles at me. It feels like a warning— _You don’t want to be off guard when you’re talking to me_. I vaguely wonder if this was how he dealt with other people—maybe Justice, for example, wasn’t quite coerced but… redirected… with such expressions and concerns for his wellbeing. It’s chilling.

“We’re here to talk about you, Mr. Gavin.”

He raises an eyebrow. “I’ll admit, the repairs to the video cameras is an interesting concept, isn’t it? It seems that whenever security fails, then the response is to look at such things.”

What’s he getting at? Is this a distraction?

“As a lawyer, I was always looking for the cracks in the system and trying to think ahead,” he tells me. “Doing so was never considered a talent or a skill, just practical application to the situation I would be presented with. This prison, however, is entirely reactionary, isn’t it?”

I don’t see anything, but I feel my jaw tighten.

“Wouldn’t you say so, doctor?” His voice softens and becomes almost intimate and human. “You would have seen a number of changes they had to make here—not because they considered them beforehand but because something _happened_ and it only then occurred to the powers that are that they needed to fix them.”

I nod, not meaning to convey agreement but acknowledgement of the statement. Gavin smiles at me again, only this time it’s almost triumphant. As though he knows he has the system in his hands. “The failings of those cameras might have played their part in Thomas Moreau’s hospitalisation.”

I force myself to stay still when he utters the name even though I’m shocked. Gavin speaks of the dead—the murdered—as though there is nothing particularly different or interesting—or disturbing about what happened to them. I think about what Machi told me about Gavin.

“How do you feel about that?”

“The cameras, or Moreau’s injuries?”

He doesn’t say anything for awhile, and pushes his glasses up his nose. “It’s a dog-eat-dog world out there,” he says. “It is inside here, too.”

I chuckle awkwardly. “Are you talking about my office of the prison?”

“The prison, of course,” he says. “Both you and I are far more civilised than basic animals.”

Sometimes, I’m not sure.

 


	34. Hope and Love and Music

It seems like the first time in a long time that things are settled on the floor and amongst the staff—settled, at least, in a Cold War sense; no one is _doing_ anything.

Duress alarms are infrequent, and usually limited to the other units when a newcomer steps in and attempts to throw his weight around, according to the report which arrives in my inbox; assaults against staff have dropped overall, and an employee survey which I never was invited to take part in reports that job satisfaction is on the increase. I sardonically wonder if they asked for Lily’s opinion after she’d been moved off the floor and to the archives-- and away from Waverley. Perhaps there is truth in it, though: even the staff are relaxed, it seems. There’s a tightness to Parke when Waverley is around, though, leading me to believe that he hadn’t quite returned to the floor with Parke’s blessing, but there's little tension between them, none of that on-edge ticking which you couldn't quite hear but could sense, in the way where you're waiting for a storm or an alarm or an "Evacuate as directed" announcement.

 

And Waverley, it appears, has taken whatever words of advice were given to him and has settled, keeping his mouth shut and doing his job without commentary and managing to draw very little attention to himself.

 

 

Amongst the A-wingers, there’s a lull; it’s the cool of Winter meeting a sense that the end of the year is approaching. Despite the prison congratulating itself on being a place accepting of all faiths and beliefs, there is the usual non-denominational end of year dinner—which takes place on Christmas Day—planned for, and inmates seem to be issued privileges more liberally around the time of the year. Perhaps the system does have a heart, buried somewhere beneath paperwork, red tape and procedure.

 

Or perhaps it’s the end of the year and no one cares. Maybe there’s an understanding few speak of that the holiday period at the end of the year can be a fragile time for some inmates; the missing of families and tradition and a usual order can bring about a sense of melancholy and loneliness. I’m not sure. But it’s a time of year when I focus on my job and the system rather than the rest of my life. Just like the men incarcerated here, we all have our weaknesses and our means of survival.

 

No one celebrates Christmas too much; the most they get is halfway decent food for lunch, according to Parke, and for a lot of them, an increase in visits. But there is little more than that to distinguish that it’s the most wonderful time of the year: decorations pose a safety risk, and for many of the inmates, there is little to celebrate about it being just another day. Christmastime brings with it another frustration: a winding down of the courts because officials take time off for the holidays and the New Year. It is a painful reminder to men wanting to speak to their lawyers that they have to sit and wait for justice to decide to make an appearance. 

 

It’s a few weeks before Christmas when I start to expect the todal wave of appointments starting to appear on my lists; but even the mood surrounding a traditionally turbulent time of the year is reasonably mellow. On that particular Monday morning, I have one name on my list when I open my email.

 _Kristoph Gavin_.

I blink, wondering why I'd expected things to remain quiet or if the stillness is bothering Gavin, too. 

 

________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

 

When Gavin is escorted into my office, his face is tight and stoic; unreadable, though I’m willing to vouch that he is not in the best of moods. Of course he’s polite – _How are you this morning, Doctor_?-- though clearly something's on his mind. My last session with him seemed social rather than practical, and ordinarily it would bother me. But in the final month of the year, I'm grateful he's just Kristoph Gavin, and not someone I have no rapport with who is suicidal because it's the end of another year inside.

 

Unless, of course, he's planning something. He hasn't seen me for about a week now, which is a long time in Gavin terms, and I've seen the growing relationship between himself and Machi Tobaye. I can't quite keep the frown out of my voice when I reply. 

 

“I’m well, thankyou.” Of course he can see through me and recognise the mild irritation. He smiles slightly, probably pleased with himself for having uncovered a blatant lie. He relaxes in his chair, and I wonder what is amusing him so much: does he believe he can intimidate me into lying? Is he amused at my discomfort? I’m not sure. In some ways, he’s the easiest and least problematic client on my list today, there are no hidden motives with him as there may be for everyone else. In other ways, he’s the most complex and manipulative person I’ve dealt with, period.

 

Gavin doesn’t say anything, either, leading me to stammer through a question: “Is everything all right, Mr. Gavin?” I find myself aching for those halcyon days when I didn’t have appointments with him at all, when he was much quieter and a lower profile on the floor, when the great ladykiller, as they called him, was _beyond_ therapy.

 

“My world is becoming increasingly complicated,” he says. And there’s something tired and resigned in his voice. “And apparently I have a visitor on their way to me.”  
  
“Oh?”  
  
“I did not request this visitor,” he says darkly, folding his hands.

 

He wants to talk about the visitor, but _why_? Normally the miniature of Kristoph Gavin’s day is off-limits to me; he wants to talk about the deep and troubling, the things which threaten to crawl under my skin and shake me, reemerging in nightmares; he wants to talk about the visits when they’re _significant_.  
  
“Why wouldn’t you refuse the visitor then?” I ask.  
  
He stares at me, a look of condescention on his face, a wrinkled nose. Pushing his glasses up his nose, his eyes widen. “I want to know what business Trucy Wright thinks she has with me,” he says sharply. “According to sources of mine, she spent a year abroad and is returning home; some sort of self-discovery where she found she’d always known herself all along or somesuch.” He rolls his eyes. “I suspect it has something to do with her parents—I’m unsure—but my sources tell me she went to Borginia.”  
  
This is where _I_ raise an eyebrow. Why the concern about visiting Borginia? Is Gavin starting to develop the same sort of perverse obsession with Tobaye—is Machi now _property_ in his mind? Instead, I find myself steadying my breath. “Your _sources_?” I ask him, a model of cool, polite interest. I’m surprised that anyone from the outside still wants to talk to him.  
  
“I understand that I need not reveal them,” he says. “I may not have _friends_ beyond these walls, though there are some who are capable of showing interest in me-- provided I can assist them.” He smiles. “I suppose you could say it is a symbiotic relationship.” There’s a smile in his voice which makes my heart sink.  
  
I feel my stomach drop. _Who the hell are you toying with now, Gavin_?  
  


I do a mental calculation: it probably isn’t Phoenix Wright, Klavier, or Apollo Justice. He’s broken their trust beyond repair. To my knowledge, he has no other family. No other office associates or friends. No poker buddies. According to his notes, he was on cool and professional terms with court staff though there was nothing personal there; probably not even a Christmas card given everyone’s hectic schedules and the daily grind of holding down prestigious ten-hour-a-day careers. Someone else at the department of Public Prosecutions? A client whom he’d helped in the past? An old mentor? He’s not mentioned anyone. For a character so notorious and who seemed to command such power, it only occurs to me then that Gavin has always lived a solitary, possibly quite lonely existence.

  
I frown.

  
“We all have our secrets,” he says, the sunny smile I’ve come to associate with disturbing revelations peeping at me. “I suppose you’re curious about my opinions about Trucy Wright, aren’t you?” The smile becomes a thin-lipped, haughty line. “I suppose one could have said she was close to a _stepdaughter_ to me a few years ago.”

  
I find myself nodding involuntarily.

  
“Trucy unnerved me,” he continues. “I never trusted her, and I suppose she never trusted me.” He flicks an invisible piece of lint from his shoulder, distracted and twitchy. “After the trial, Wright seemed to take it into his head that he needed to adopt her; initially she was supposed to stay with him for a few nights while paperwork surrounding fostering her was sorted out; even state social workers argued that a child so young would be better off with Wright than in a government facility given the shortage of viable foster settings for her.”

  
I nod.

  
“I was prepared to like her; I assumed we would have been familiar with one another since we _did_ know one another from that first day in court. Perhaps Trucy associated me with that day: with the trauma of losing her father and becoming an orphan; perhaps some subconscious piece of her memory blames her for Wright’s disbarrment since she was the one who gave him the piece of paper which cost him that trial and his reputation.” He shrugs, shaking his head casually. “I’m not sure. But all attempts to forge a relationship with the girl failed.”

  
“I see.”

  
He grimaces, his jaw tightening with anger. “I have always been _good_ with children,” he says, as though some part of the equation is incorrect, and not being _him_ , it _had_ to be _her_. “But Trucy never spoke to me. She would speak to everyone else, but would remain silent when interacting with me.” Anger rises in his voice. “Of course, Wright just argued that she was _shy_ , but I would see the way she would stare at me: her eyes would widen, as though she was looking right through glass and could see a monster no one else could see on the other side.”

  
Perhaps the expression on my face is sympathetic to Trucy’s horror. “That must have been difficult while you were romantically involved with her father, then.”

  
He smirks at me. “Initially I tried to be sensitive about the matter,” he says. “Though the looks and her attitude—and Wright’s—started to become tiresome.” He corrects himself quickly. “I did nothing to hurt her,” he continues. “In truth, I wanted her to be as far away from the situation as possible. Keeping her in the house with him was a risk; if she remembered seeing me in the courthouse, she would become a liability…” He trails off. “She lacked the comprehension and the ability to forge a relationship with me as the other youngster, the Misham girl—had.” His face tightens again. “ _She_ would have been _fine_ had she just been a good girl and stayed inside. Where she was safe. Where she wanted to be—“

  
He stops himself, returning to the subject of Trucy. “When Wright was putting in applications for adoption, I was doing my best to quietly undermine him.” He blinks. “He had no business being a father anyway—it was in the girl’s best interest to have a normal childhood—“

  
I consider the childhood Klavier Gavin had and feel my face heating up with anger at the sheer nerve of Gavin’s behaviour. I can’t mention it, though. So I don’t.

  
“I had the building inspector arrive to look at the age and state of the building he lived in, while I was pretending to be an investor, when I _knew_ a social worker would be conducting a visit and likely overhearing things. I paid for a loud party for the people in the apartment below Wright’s when I knew there would be a weekend visit for the department to investigate Wright’s living situation during the weekend. I made sure forms got lost or misplaced or redirected. I may have had something to do with Wright’s resume disappearing from that ancient computer of his.” He shrugs. “It was, of course—“

  
“All in the interests of a young girl’s future.” My voice is dry and sarcastic, and Gavin recognises the tone and smiles. “Believe me or not, doctor, but there was a very genuine desire to see Miss Grammarye come to no harm because of the three ring circus she’d been born into.”

  
I just nod, vaguely sickened. _More importantly, though, she was too close to your sabotage effort_.

  
“Failing that, I suppose you could say I didn’t hold back after awhile. I tired of having to walk on eggshells because of her.” Another smile from him. “I still remember her knocking on the bedroom door—which both Wright and I insisted had to remain closed while we were in there—for obvious reasons—knowing that she could hear what was on the other side and that she likely had no comprehension of it.” His nose wrinkles. “Wright always pandered to her,” he sniffs. “He’d stop, mid-coitus, to deal with her questions and her concerns.” He sighs, in an exaggerated fashion. “Afterwards, he’d throw on a robe, step out, reassure her that he was all right, and she would make rather innocuous though amusing comments about how she’d saved her daddy and I from the monster in the room.” His eyes narrow, furious and cynical. “I believe, though, that the monster in her imagination could have _devoured_ me and she wouldn’t have cared one whit.”

 

This is the first time I’ve seen how petty and childish he can be. Certainly, Trucy posed a practical threat to him and his plan—I could understand that—but the anger and envy in his voice still remains. He was jealous of a _child_?

  
“I suppose I should be grateful,” he says wryly. “The invention of the monster in the bedroom meant that morning-after explanations would occur to her only within that frame of logic. Daddy screamed because of the monster. Daddy had cuts and bruises marring his skin because of the monster—“

 _  
Jesus Christ_.

  
I find myself wondering, in openmouthed horror, when Trucy is going to join Lauryn’s client list like everyone else affected by Gavin seems to have.

  
He chuckles, noticing the way my face changes. “I suppose Wright, back in the early days, introduced me to some of my more arcane interests,” he says thoughtfully.

  
I don’t want to hear about them, but he’s engaged now, and strangely talkative. For what feels like the first time in a long time, he’s talking about himself, freely, with no mind games and manipulation. Do I want to hear this, though? Really--?

  
“After his fall from grace, Wright despised himself,” he tells me, his voice softening, as though he’s savouring the memory. “He wallowed in shame; everything about him was stripped down to bone—his identity, his success—suddenly it counted for nothing. And he’d then lose himself in alcohol.” Oddly enough, he just sounds irritated describing it.

  
“He hated that about himself, too,” he continues. His voice is creeping, speeding up to something louder and faster and more excited. “The first time we became intimately involved, he crawled away afterwards, shaking and sobbing to himself about how much he didn’t deserve me.” He closes his eyes, rocking, leaning forward. “He begged me to make it hurt,” he says. “Honestly.” It sounds so simple, and the way he describes the situation is disturbing: I can tell he’s being perfectly truthful, yet he appears to see nothing at all wrong with the scenario he’s describing.

  
“So I did,” he continues. “And he became addicted to it, and I to him because of his reactions. I pushed him harder; I wanted stronger reactions from him, louder screams, gasps which indicated more surprise.” He opens his eyes and is smiling warmly. “It’s strange,” he says. “Wright always used to tell me that he never understood me, that he felt that I could see right through him, but that he could never read me. I used to find that amusing-- maybe I couldn’t read some things—I had not expected his betrayal, for example—but I could tell that I was dealing with a broken man who was begging to be punished for falling into my trap. I suppose it was fitting that I was to do the honours, then.” His eyes sparkle at me, alive and electric, and part of me braces myself for what I’m expecting to hear next: the horrible details, explained with a slightly amused smile.

  
But he surprises me. “Justice wasn’t the same.”  
  


I’m not sure if I’m grateful or disappointed. Or stunned, because he seemed to be losing himself in telling the story and then— _wham!_ —just like that I’ve unceremoniously had a page turned on me when I haven’t quite finished reading it.

  
“He wasn’t?” I ask, trying to keep my voice neutral.

  
“No—he was… quietly confident, in his own little idiosyncratic way, I suppose. And _oh_ so desperate to please.” He smiles, but only for a second. “I actually grew tired of humiliating him when I found out he’d willingly do anything I asked of him.” He looks thoughtful for a moment. “Justice had potential to be great,” he says wistfully. “Beneath the youthful clumsiness there was a mind as sharp as a readied blade. Perhaps he himself did not realise that. Perhaps everyone else in his life didn’t. But I did.” He smiles again. “Justice was almost perfect,” he continues. “I truly did think of him as—“ He stops himself before blurting out words which might make me wince in horror. “Not a son,” he tells me safely. “My _student_. Though not a student in the conventional way we think of education, a number in a room, a reason for an income, a mind to be filled wth the dull miniature of curricula decided by a state wishing to babysit and be reassured that its dependants can read and write and be prepared for minimum wage work—“ He looks thoughtful—“ _No_. A student when the word _meant something_. When the elder instructed one in the ways of all ways of life, when a student could blossom under their instruction, where they learned more than to read and write but how to think, how to appreciate and aim to understand the intricacies of the world—“

  
“So why the humiliation?”

  
Gavin looks at me, bewildered at my daring interruption. “Why not?” he asks with a smile. “He was prepared to do anything for me. And he looked so perfect whilst doing it. And I wanted to test his boundaries.”

  
I suck in my breath, already regretting what I’m about to ask. “Did that mean you had to test how _far_ though?”

  
“I never looked at it that way, Doctor,” he says with a shrug. “And to be fair, Justice became more than a student to me. I was wrongly… attached to the young man. He was a drug; I was seduced by his intelligence and fascination with the world, his memory, his naïve enthusiasm—I—“ He cuts himself off. “I longed to be free of the addiction, to see him treacherous and sullied so the spell would be broken.” He blinks, pushing his glasses up his nose again, and flicking his hair out of the way. “The bitter irony of the whole matter was that Justice betrayed me when I had thought it impossible; he had repeatedly demonstrated his devotion towards me, and thus I granted him a chance to understand loss; I allowed him that case; I handed Wright over to my brother—“ His voice hardens—“And Justice betrayed me. _Publically_.”  
  


There’s a glassy-eyed look on his face behind the spectacles, and in that moment, I almost feel sorry for him. I can almost imagine him feeling comfortable and settled, assuming his relationship with Apollo Justice was _fine_ , and then… _that_.

  
  
I remember the shock of when Liz made her intentions clear about the divorce. I hadn’t suspected anything. For years, things had continued on as they had, and all the time, she’d been doing her own thinking and experiencing, and like Justice, she’d decided that things didn’t add up and she’d gone her own way, and the startling realision of it all stung like a slap in the face.

 

I'm sickened at having compared my own relationship with my _wife_  to _that_. I hope Gavin can't see me twitch awkwardly. 

  
  
I find myself blinking, and Gavin cranes his neck towards me, studying my face with interest. No. I’m not like him. I’ve never made it my business to seduce and humiliate junior staff. I’m not corrupt. I’m—

  
I shake my head involuntarily.

  
“Penny for your thoughts, Doctor?” Gavin asks me, and I think of what we were talking about before Justice.

  
“Let’s discuss Phoenix Wright,” I finish. “You were talking about the fact that Mr. Wright…”

  
He smiles. “Yes: Wright despised himself by the time he fell into my hands.” He pauses. “Of course, I’d heard about him: the mere _existence_ of him and his success bothered me. Here was a lawyer who’d received training in the same manner as all others—and yet, for some reason, he believed the rules did not apply to him.”

  
“In what respect, Mr. Gavin?”

  
“He would arrive in court with no idea what he was doing or how the evidence connected together,” he says. “He’d stumble through a case with no planning whatsoever; he’d repeatedly ask the same questions, he’d irritate all and sundry, and yet—“ The disgust in his tone is clearly evident—“They called this _brilliant_.” His voice is clipped and angry, speeding into a hiss. “I received top marks, I was forever attending extra-curricular functions, I was working several jobs—and I did _not_ have a sweet-natured mentor assisting me—my first station was in the _public_ service—and yet—Wright is granted all these privileges and still manages to be poorly organised and clumsy in his cases.” The look in his eyes reminds me of a pot of water, on the verge of boiling and sizzling over a covered lid. “They called him brilliant,” he says. “And when I found out that he was awarded the Grammarye case—I was disgusted. Though I did realise I could use his clumsiness and poor planning to my advantage.”

  
He smiles wistfully. “I suppose it comes with the career,” he says with a shrug. “Lawyers look for the loopholes and how they can use the resources available to them to their advantage. I found Wright’s loophole, the one Miles Edgeworth and Franziska von Karma had spent years trying to exploit.” Another smile. “I suppose the two of them lack the basic human empathy to try and understand Wright’s clockwork.”  

  
He’s returned to calm again, savouring the moment, apparently unaware of the irony of his statement. “I actually wanted him dead, initially,” he says, “Though that was too crude, too banal—too animalistic." Was the smile directed at me a reference to something I'd said last time I'd seen him? "Amusing myself with his decline and using him to blood Klavier and to teach my young protégé about humility was a _far_ better idea.” There’s a smile which snaps _off_ abruptly. “And like that—I became addicted to him. He was helpless and friendless and pathetic and ready to be shaped to whatever I wanted. He despised himself even more than I despised him. Yet he begged for my attention, he _relied_ on me.” He blinks, as though realising that I haven’t spoken, and his voice softens. “I’m not entirely sure whether I fell in love with his vulnerability and the potential to make him do whatever I wanted, or if I wanted to _solve_ him,” he says. “I was gentle with him—he was the one who instigated the… less than gentle intimacy.” He raises an eyebrow at me, as though daring me to ask for more. Mentally sighing, I blink back, determined to not show disgust or disapproval. I’m not going to give him that satisfaction.

  
“He would drink, and lament that he’d never understand me,” he says, as though trying to find a more palatable explanation. “It was the sort of passive-aggressive comment someone lacking in communication skill makes to suggest a change in behaviour from their partner,” he sniffs. Again, brushing hair away from his face, he looks unimpressed with his memories of Wright and continues. “And after a bit of shifting backwards and forwards in that fashion, never finding any resolution,  we’d indulge our more carnal desires. It was as though that was our only way of settling things” He fiddles idly with a strand of hair. “Initially I found it distasteful,” he says. “I had no connection to him: I did not love him, I didn’t want the sort of intimacy he offered… until I realised that he wanted it— _needed_ it—a particular way. Wright didn’t just offer me his body and some pleasure; there was more to it than that—he was offering everything—his mind, his soul, his dignity.” As he’s been speaking, a smirk has been steadily appearing on his face, and now it’s so string that looking at him makes me feel uncomfortable. 

  
“What do you mean by that?” The repetition makes me wonder if Gavin is trying to justify his part in a situatiuon he knew to be abusive... or if he's truly only become aware that Wright actually had masochistic tendencies.  
  


“He would ask for certain things; he would request that I inflict pain upon him subtly; he wanted to use me like a drug or the alcohol he had taken to drinking excessively. I suspect he wanted the pain to blot out memories, to punish him for his failure, to be completely different to… what he was used to in the past, I suppose.” There’s a casual, faux-humble shrug from him. “I don’t know,” he says, “ _You’re_ the psychiatrist, doctor. You’d probably understand his behaviour better than I.”

  
I’m interested that he’s referring to me. Maybe he wants me to approve of his theories. Maybe he’s trying to show me that we’re still on the same field, that he’s as smart as me, that he considers behaviour as much as I do, that just because he’s a degenerate who abuses everyone he gets close to, he’s still—

  
“Did he tell you much about his past?” I ask.

  
“Not really,” Gavin says. “I do not believe he’s had a great deal of sexual experience beyond the period he was involved with Miles Edgeworth.” He smirks at the mention of the magenta-suited prosecutor. “And I also believe Edgeworth never realised that his beau has such tendencies. He looked quite shocked when I mentioned the old days during that visit.” He chuckles to himself. "Mr. Edgeworth is sitting on a library of secrets he'll probably _never_ know about."  

  
The name _Miles Edgeworth_ makes me sit up abruptly. I remember the slivers of information Redd White told me about Edgeworth and what Lauryn let slip. And I remember, what seems like a lifetime ago now, when Gavin was amused that Edgeworth had ended a visit between himself and Wright and Gavin.  
  


The conversation sort of sits there for a moment and Gavin folds his hands and unfolds them. “I guess you could say that Miles Edgeworth doesn’t like me very much.” He smirks, fiddling with a strand of his hair. “Perhaps he’s jealous of me.”

  
I’m not sure if he’s considering it or play-acting for my benefit, and if the latter is the case, I’d rather shift back to the topic he’s side-stepped away from. “So— _Trucy_ Wright,” I coax gently. “When did you receive notification of her intention to visit?”

  
“This morning,” he says with a yawn and a dramatic stretch. “I don’t know what she’d want to say to me after so long.”  
  
There’s another uncharacteristically awkward silence.  
  
“Does her impending arrival bother you?” I ask quietly.  
  
Gavin doesn’t say anything. “I still don’t trust her.” He shakes his head. “Perhaps I’m over-focussing because I have so little else to think about in here—“ He cuts himself off. “I really couldn’t say—“ He sighs quietly.  
  
I’m not getting anywhere with him and it’s as though he’s bewildered and confused and just wants to be irritated about Trucy’s visit. I change the subject.  
  
“Other than _that_ ,” I ask him, “How’s life on the unit lately?”  
  
“It continues,” he says haughtily. “Though I am wondering if I should be offended at the replacement Engarde seems to have chosen for me.”  
  
I raise an eyebrow.  
  
“Beyond that, the same sorts of _animalistic_ power struggles continue, there is the same indifference from the majority of the staff, and there is the same dull routine moving us towards the end of our days like a very slow-moving conveyor belt.” He rolls his eyes. “Beyond my games of chess with Tobaye and our discussions, there is very little to keep me interested on the unit.”  
  
He doesn’t mention Engarde or Crescend again. It seems that his former beau is now an irritating afterthought and little more, and Machi is—  
  
“Oh--" he says, seemingly just having thought of it-- "I do suspect young Machi may have a bit of an attachment to me.” His voice is grim. “Believe what you wish, Doctor—I know others already do—but—I think, in his own strange, awkward little way, he’s flirting with me.” A one-note chuckled from him and he pushes his glasses up his nose, continuing. “I daresay I’m not used to such attention. Whenever I’ve had intimacy with others, _I’ve_ initiated the pursuit.” He runs long pale fingers through his hair. “The problem is at the moment, I have no idea how to gently let him down without offending him—“ And that’s when I get a strange tone of voice from him, something worried and awkward which I’m not used to—“And risking his fury.”  
  


I could almost laugh at the idea of Gavin being scared of something, until I think about all his devious scheming and murders and attempted murders. All of them were because of fear. Fear of not being number one, fear of being humiliated, fear of being exposed, fear of not being in control. I blink. Machi Tobaye has just changed the subject of fear: it’s now something far less abstract: fear of physical assault. A perfectly rational fear to have, given Tobaye’s behaviour in the past.

  
Gavin crosses his legs awkwardly. “I do not like being afraid of anything,” he says gingerly. He looks around the office, avoiding my eyes, as though in search of something. The silence between us feels like a chasm. Somehow, what seemed like a superfluous visit has revealed so much—I’m mildly annoyed because translating it—and the following two sessions—to casenotes will be a chore in itself—though I’m curious. _Why the vulnerability now, Gavin?_

  
He rubs his hands, massaging them with invisible hand cream. His gaze turns to the plaster cat on my desk, the pile of A4 papers, the framed postcard, all things which he’s seen before. His expression is oddly, silently frantic.

  
“Wright loved being humiliated,” he says quickly and automatically. I try to read his eyes, but the angle he’s sitting at makes it difficult; all I can see from where I am is the reflection of fluroscent lighting in the lenses of his glasses. The effect is eerie and makes his statement seem almost inhuman. “I used to make him wear his suit, the famous blue one he wore with that fuchsia tie—when I’d fuck him. Sometimes I’d send Justice away to run errands for me and I’d take him bent over my desk. I’d tug on the tie and pull his clothing from him and usually I could reduce him to pitiful tears and thankyous by the end.” His voice slows to something thick and warm and content, savouring the memories. I still can’t see his eyes properly. “I would send him out, bedraggled and shamed, like a cheap office slut I was seeing on the side, primarily because I did not want Justice to see him.” He turns his head, smiling slightly. “Justice, despite his excellent inquisitive skills and attention to detail, only came close to finding out a handful of times.” The smile broadens. “I could easily shift his attention; I would request a cup of tea and when he brought it, I’d sit him down and talk to him about mythology and ideas and learning. I would wryly tell him about Zeus and Ganymede providing water to the gods, alluding, of course, that that was how _I_ viewed him—which I did, but the power was stronger in implication than admission.” He chuckles to himself.

  
It’s that point where I realise that he’s quite earnest about the relationship with Tobaye being so vastly different to the one with Justice. And I’m aware of how he has, lawyer-like, changed the subject matter effortlessly, shocking my attention away from what we were discussing earlier--

  
“What are you going to do in regards to Machi Tobaye?” I ask him quietly.

  
He pauses. It’s the first time I think I recall him being unable to answer something directly. He’s tried to buy time and it hasn’t worked. And now he’s out of ideas.

  
“Mr. Gavin?” I ask him gently.

  
He looks up slightly, shoulders heaving upwards. “I—“

  
There’s a knock on the door which I want to ignore. Saved by the bell.

  
“I believe we are out of time, Doctor,” he says. He stands, not quite looking at me. The door opens and Towne is standing there, looking time-pressed and irritated. I gather today is a short-staffed one on the unit.

  
He says nothing as he leaves, walking out demurely and quietly as though I’ve just told him to keep taking his medication and to write to his family.

  
When the door closes, I find myself worried, though it isn’t for him. It’s for Machi Tobaye, who has revealed a serious vulnerability to someone utterly ruthless, without realising the potential for damage.

 

 

While the door is open, an unfamiliar sound leaks into my sound-proofed office and causes me to investigate further once I become aware that Gavin and Towne will be out of earshot. I open the door minutes after them, and it's grown louder: an echo of beautiful piano music, gloriously happy, tinkling down the hallway. I wish I could open my door and allow it to permeate my office while I work: suddenly hearing it I'm aware of how _silent_  things are around here without the alien buzzes of alarms and the crackle of the radios and the shriek of the duress.

 

I step down the corridor quietly, hoping to evade anyone who needs to see me. I have my suspicions about who is using the piano, but I want to see them confirmed. I want to hear the rest of the piece that is playing; it's light and joyous and innocent, and far too hopeful for this place. It's impossible. Something so ridiculous-- and so technically perfect-- about it makes me only crave more. I continue walking long until I reach the window.

  
Feeling my face offer a broad grin as I recognise the mop of blonde hair eliciting such beautiful sounds from the instrument, I place a hand against the window, hoping that Hamm doesn't see me standing there, lost for a moment in sentimental wonder. He isn't paying attention like I am; he's doing a puzzle in the newspaper, evidently not bothered by Tobaye being any kind of risk while he's at the piano. Tobaye might not have anything else at the moment, but he has this. Whether he knows it or not, his gift and perseverance with music has been a blessing to others, an improvement to their lives. It’s given him something to focus on, something that’s a source of pride without fear, something that rises above the in-fighting and cruelty and indifference of prison life. Something nothing can take away.  

 

I stand at the window and listen, wishing I could unlock the door and fill the corridor with the sound. It’s a beautiful piece that he’s playing with full concentration, it sounds so light and delicate and cheerful that I can’t help but keep smiling for him. Words aren’t needed to express the way that this song loves life, embracing it, elated, freeing Machi Tobaye for a few minutes and taking him somewhere beyond the walls and the oppression of the prison.

  
I can’t see any sheet music; so he’s remembered the piece off by heart. Months, perhaps, years of learning the song has turned it into a statement more familiar than either Borginian or English language. It’s his expression, his love of being alive, a great big “fuck you” to the system which has hardened him and turned his youthful face serious.

  
I’m glad he has his music, just as I’m glad Gant and the others have the pool which is opening up soon. People, even these people, need something to keep u-p hope in the world. Even a speck of light can make up for a hell of a lot of darkness.  
  


  
I find myself thinking, absently, of their stark contrast to Gavin—and by association—Engarde, because neither of them seem to have anything like this; the physical release and a passion large I can see in Machi's finmgers, which is loud enough to somehow improve their lives for a few moments and to perhaps make the rest of it bearable.

 

I distract myself with a few more moments of listening to Machi play, watching the concentration on his face, his mouth in a tight, intense little line, and I can’t help but smile. Machi neither sees me nor returns my expression. He doesn't need to.

 

 

________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

 

Engarde is on the main area of the floor, sitting next to Crescend, I notice, when I head back towards my office. They seem content enough with one another’s company, though I notice Crescend’s eyes darting out to flash angrily at Machi Tobaye—or Gavin—every so often-- I’m unsure who the glaring is directed at.

 

 “They’ve been doing this all day,” Field says, stepping up beside me, his plastic cup in hand as he’s headed towards the staffroom. “When they haven’t been at work assignments or programs.”

 

I nod.

 

“Reminds me of my house at the moment,” Field continues with a chuckle. “My girlfriend moved in last week and brought her cat with her. And that’s what they’re all doing—her cat glares at my two like that, mine glare at hers, there’s the occasional growl and hiss, but nothing actually happens. It’s like a cold war of death glares.”

  
I laugh amicably; this is the first time I’ve heard anything about Field or his homelife—I didn’t know he liked cats; I’d always seen him as more of a dog person. Or an exotic-animal-in-a-tank person.

  
He shakes his head and tells me in a low voice. “I dunno what’s going on with these guys, but I suspect when it does, more fur’s gonna fly than you’ll see in my living room.”

  
“I thought Machi and Crescend were in the music room together, though?” I ask. “Or has Parke amended that?”

  
Gavin’s foot stops moving under the table and his fingers delicately lift his queen from the board and replace it, putting the younger man in check. I see his lips move to advise Machi, and Machi says something, his own hand reaching across the board and taking one of Gavin’s knights.

  
All the time Engarde is watching them, looking furious. His hand is playing with the fabric covering Crescend’s thigh though his eyes are on Gavin and Machi. With a rough tug, he pulls on Crescend’s hair, wrenching him over uncomfortably for a violent, rage-fuelled kiss. Affection, Matt Engarde style.

  
Gavin looks up with serene amusement, and his smile becomes a soft chuckle when they’re asked to separate by Denham.

  
  
Maybe the silence and stillness of the year hasn't quite hit yet, and I was being overly optimistic in looking for it. This afternoon there’s an awful tension on the unit, though, which continues even after Gavin and Machi have returned to their chess board, and Engarde and Crescend have started talking about something.

  
“I don’t think those two are the problem,” Field says to me, still frowning. Another one caught up in the daytime soap opera of Gavin and Engarde.

  
I shrug. I’m not sure what to think any more; things have shifted so quickly amongst the four of them, and with Crescend being the exception, all of the rest seem to be very… _passionate_ human beings, very black-and-white in their thinking. Field gives me an uncomfortable look, like he wants to say something but doesn’t; perhaps he’s now suspecting some enormous drama to occur; maybe the uneasiness and the waiting for something to happen is contagious.

  
  
With nothing else to do, I return to my office. I get a dreadful sense that I overestimated the calm, and now I'm waiting for something to happen. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would just like to thank everyone who is *still* keeping up with this one. I'm still writing it, but a realisation of a poorly-planned order of events meant that I had to rework a few things, hence the delay in the updating. And I hate leaving notes in things I'm writing, but just wanted to say thankyou for your feedback (I have no idea how to reply!) and that you guys are awesome. I hope the new stuff works for you.


	35. Pieces of Broken

The knock on my door is different to Parke’s usual tap-tap-tap.

Parke’s is strong and no-nonsense, like a firm handshake, and I’m curious when I hear the slight, timid sort of rap against the heavy wood. This sounds quieter, weaker and uncertain, as though the hand attached to the knock isn’t used to how loud you have to be with the doors of a secure facility.

 

“Come in,” I call from my desk, reviewing the notes I’m leaving in Gavin’s file. I’m actually welcoming the break: what do I say? I’m having writer’s block. Perhaps I’ve already said everything about him that needs to be said, though Gavin has been… strange lately. Once again I find myself questioning the relevance of our meetings, wondering darkly if there’s a reason to continue with them if they’re entirely ritualistic for him, and if there is any strategy in when he decides to tell me _certain things_ —or if my presumption of _strategy_ is merely my growing paranoia and cynicism.

 

_Maybe I’m getting too sceptical to work in this job…_

 

“Er… hi, Doctor.” The door opens, and I’m interrupted by Will Smeer standing there, looking at me as though he’s been defeated. I want to smile. But the reality of the matter is that despite our initially adversarial relationship, I’m now grateful to him; he’s lessened my caseload and he’s seemingly humbled since his time off after Engarde caught him _in flagrante delicto_ with Wellington. I feel myself frowning. I don’t want to be grateful for Engarde’s manipulation of a man’s career. And I still trust Smeer even less than I’d trust Engarde. And I wonder why he’s standing at my door, looking a weird combination of incredibly sheepish and worried.

“Can I help you, Dr. Smeer?”

 

He looks around my office, as though he’s surveying it for any differences from his own. Not commenting on it, his eyes return to mine. “I was wondering if I could… have a talk to you,” he says softly.

I can tell he doesn’t like asking me for assistance, that he’s wondering if he should regret what he’s just said. It’s an admission of vulnerability, and I want to relish this moment. Months ago, I would have, childishly telling him I was too busy to assist and that perhaps he could talk to DeNong or one of his buddies upstairs. But at the moment, he doesn’t look like the golden child of the facility, the boy blessed unfairly by knowing the right people. Right now he looks like a kid; overworked, stressed and unsure. It reminds me of my early days on the unit, back when things were chaotic all the time, and I feel a pang of sympathy for him.

 

“Have a seat,” I offer. He nods as though thanking me, awkwardly shutting the door behind him, and he pulls up the chair usually used by my clients.

“What’s the problem?”

 

His face crumbles, and gone is the Smeer I know. He’s no longer a young, smug upstart; he looks close to tears and burned out years too early.

“How do you keep doing this?” he asks, unable to keep his voice as quiet and calm and even as mine is.

“What? Working here?”

 

There’s a faint smile from him. “Yeah,” he says. “I’ve just had… the kind of morning my professors warned me about years ago.” His chin is quivering, his eyes threatening tears, magnified and made even more pathetic by his designer spectacle frames. I don’t know exactly what he’s referring to: there haven’t been any major incidents, this has been a perfectly benign day. So far.

 

“What’s happened?” I ask. I can’t help the sympathy. It’s not false, a put-on; it’s something quite genuine and worried.

“It’s Julian Callander,” he says. And he’s nervous. “I wanted to believe that I was right and that it was just a case of medicating him properly, but…” He trails off. “Did you know what that guy _did_?”

 

I can only look at him, wondering what he’s implying.

 

“I don’t always look at the details of their offending,” I tell him. “Not closely, unless I get a particularly involved or tough nut to crack. Sometimes it’s irrelevant to our clients’ offending and their underlying uissues…” I offer him a small smile. “I worry about details compromising my ability to be objective.” In that flash of a moment, I consider Gavin. I’d read his file because I was confused by him: why would such a harmless-looking, well-spoken and _gentlemanly_ person be amongst the worst society could catch and convict? Did I lose that objectivity somewhere along the line?

 

Smeer nods, and I’m taken back to hearing about Callander. “I—I don’t know what’s going on with him,” he says. “He seems to be getting worse and—“ He cuts himself off. “He’s not _every_ thing,” he continues. “He’s just been the final _thing_ that’s hit me this morning.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“He was convicted for _kidnapping_ that little girl,” Smeer says. “There was no evidence that he knowingly killed her.”

 

I nod. My breath seizes up within me and this is where I brace myself for hearing the worst. This is what I would have done if I’d known about what happened to nine-year-old Klavier Gavin and I was expecting to hear about it. I never expected to hear it. Not in a million years.

 

Smeer recognises the expression on my face. I wonder how many times he’s made it himself.

 

“There’s always more to the story, isn’t there?” I offer.

 

He nods, and then his face hardens. “Why do we keep seeing them when they’re beyond help?” he snaps out of nowhere. “If we’re here to _treat them_ , why can’t we _do that_ , or if we’re merely expected to assess and prescribe, then why all the extraneous sessions?” His voice is growing louder and faster. “Have you ever thought that some of them are just using the psychiatric services here to avoid doing their work or to have some time away from the unit as opposed to because they need therapy and can accept that?” His hands are moving with his speech. “What about your one—“

 

And that’s when I brace myself, expecting to hear Gavin mentioned—“Engarde,” he continues in that nanosecond, and I can’t help but blink—“How many sessions does _he_ need, anyway--?”

 

“Engarde has a diagnosis of borderline personality disorder and a clear history of self-injurous behaviour and suicidal thinking—“

 

“Until they can manufacture drugs to treat personality disorders, he’s a lost cause,” Smeer snarls. My face remains blank in light of his frustration. I can’t help it; I’ve heard all this so many times before, from the regular officers.

My natural reaction to anything is a still, calm, expectant look of something which often gets mistaken for indifference.

 

 _Christ_.He _does that. All I need do is tilt my hed slightly, smile and murmur a honeyed “Mmm” and I’d be doing exactly the same thing he does when he’s trying to look indifferent._

 

“We’re here to do a job,” I say quietly. “Which is attend to the mental health needs of our client base.” I shrug.

 

My mind is racing beneath the calm. _I’m projecting here, aren’t I? Who can really tell what’s going on in that deranged, hyperintellectual mind of his. Who’d really_ want _to?_

 

_Me. That’s why I’m still seeing him._

 

“We’re wasting our time here with the longtermers like your Engardes and your Callanders,” Smeer says. “We’re just getting front row seats to watch crazy men go crazier and then die. Because that’s all they do here. There’s no help. There’s no treatment. There’s no rehabilitation. There’s no _point._ ”

 

He’s been growing louder, his hand movements quicker and more pronounced. But even in his rage, he’s unaware of how harmless he looks; he’s a toddler throwing a tantrum in a supermarket about the injustice of his predicament and it will not stop the supermarket being a supermarket or make any onlookers feel little more than a sense of irritation if anything.  

 

And he’s just realised it, and now he’s embarrassed.

 

“Did you ever think your life was going to turn out this way?” he asks quietly. “That _this_ would be your career for the next forty years?”

 

I just blink at him. He isn’t seeing me because he wants-- or needs-- to know about my life. He’s seeing me about his own. And I’m still cautious of telling him anything which could be used as ammunition later on.

“There’s always time to turn around,” I tell him softly. “It’s not uncommon to realise the pressure that you’re under in this environ—“

He nods, and I think amongst the things I’ve said to him, I’ve finally offered him something that he wants to hear.

He stands up from the chair, shaking slightly, but looking relieved. As though he’s run a marathon and winning no longer matters—but that he’s finished is the real reward.

“Thankyou, Doctor.”

 

The door opens for a moment to allow the brief tinkle of Machi Tobaye’s piano playing to waft in for a second, and closes behind him quietly as he slips back out. I have to force myself to stop considering what I’ve just said to Dr. Smeer. He’s different to me, anyway, he’s only in his twenties, he has time to get out of here and rebuild anew. Or he can do what Phoenix Wright did after his disbarment and work elsewhere in the field, still a respected name, still with his university results and accolades behind him, and then this place as little more than reduced to a few words on a resume.

 

I don’t have that option.

 

I stare into the screen, its black border oppressive and ominous.

_Who are we helping here?_

 

For the thousandth time, I re-read the quip underneath the picture of the broken link. I really am the common link in all the dysfunctional relationships in my life and work.

And all of my relationships are dysfunctional.

 

I don’t return to my work for a long time, and I stare into the screen, feeling entirely trapped in a way probably not dissimilar to the manner in which my clients are.

 

 -----------------------------------

 

 

The searing scream of the duress alarm, strangely alien for a moment because we haven’t had one for awhile, disrupts everything. I jump up, startled, wondering where it’s coming from: it sounds closer than usual somehow, and every bit as desperate and urgent as it always does. Curiousity and the desire to stretch make me shift to my door and open it, and that’s the first indication I get that my sense that the something I was suspecting would happen _has--_ I can hear a thundering stampede of footsteps making their way up the staircase. And I turn in the direction they’re headed. __

I follow them at a brisk pace, letting my door shut behind me, wondering what the urgency is, my fingers flipping to the radio dial to try for some tell-tale announcements. I can’t hear anything over the alarm but the thud of feet running down the corridor, towards—

_The music room?_

 

It’s a scrum of bodies, mostly officers; the door’s flung open, and there is screaming and howling which even manages to break through the shriek of the alarm. I’m shell-shocked upon arrival—yes, there was that one incident involving Engarde losing it and the guitars, but beyond that, the music room has really been a place of peace and… beauty.

It is no longer.

 

There are ominious, angry red splashes of blood across the piano keys, I can see, as the cluster of bodies shifts to the side. There are smears of bright red across the keys further along; against the shrill white, it stands out dramatically, almost to the point of looking staged. But from the sounds coming from Tobaye, it is no more staged than any of the other assaults have been.

 

Crescend is the one who appears to be fired up, struggling angrily against a mess of blue and grey uniforms, as he’s herded into a corner of the room. Engarde is cuffed and waiting patiently near the door, giggling furiously. His part in the drama appears to be over, and it seems that he’s gone quietly. I frown, already realising that this was likely another one of his schemes if he’s been able to switch off his aggression that quickly. In a split second, I consider _that_ : Engarde’s always been out of control and frantic and unable to switch off his reactions. Is this control the indication of him improving his behaviour or sinking to far more dangerous and calculating depths? Maybe self-control isn’t an aim, but a cessation of the violence is.

 

It takes me less a moment to register what has happened in here. The blood. The way Engarde is watching curiously, like a tourist observing some sort of interesting foreign custom while on vacation; the stomach-churning injured-animal howls and the rage from Tobaye, who, from the noise and the blood, could have clearly had his heart torn from his chest.

_No. It’s only nearly that bad._

 

I realise what’s happened without actually putting the evidence together.

Tears are running down his face as he’s screaming, and across the room, in a tangle of wispy black hair and saliva and _“That’s what you get, you rat-fucking snitch!”_ Crescend, the man with nothing left to lose—is firing back the insults and trying to break free of the officers restraining him, thrashing wildly, his pointed teeth looking dangerous and vampiric. In this state, he’s transformed into something horrifying and base. I step back without realising it, in case I need to dash for the bathroom.

 

In that moment, I want to be sick. The violence and the smell and the panic—and those awful howls coming from Tobaye, and Crescend’s monstrous appearance—all these things in combination with one another—is a level of nightmarish unparalleled by anything else that’s happened immediately in front of me.

 

 

The alarm is stopped by someone in the control area. I step back again, unnoticed and horrified. Curiousity abated.

 

Matt Engarde cranes his neck and chuckles at Crescend, the hideously scarred side of his face revealed, light glittering in his eyes, a child watching a particularly aggressive puppet show. He doesn’t have to do anything now; it’s all happening in front of him, and he looks delighted with what’s taking place; at Tobaye’s sobs and screams, at Crescend hissing and yelling and thrashing violently against the officers, and the general chaos surrounding him.

 

Parke rushes up the stairs, his breaths small gasps. “Most of them are at work duty,” he says to no one in particular. “No need for lockdown unless—“ And he catches a glimpse of what’s happened, of Engarde now giggling like a child who’s played a stupid prank on a classmate. Crescend starts calming when he sees Parke, his eyes acknowledging that perhaps reason and a reasonable manager will get him out of this. He jabs an accusing finger in Engarde’s direction: “It was _his_ fucking idea,” he bellows.

 

There’s a flicker of horror in Parke’s eyes, and he reaches for his radio, his eyes scanning the room for evidence of what’s happened. He seems to make the same assumption that I have. “Code grey to the music room in the professional section, code grey,” he states, though when he pulls away the horror in his expression becomes evident once more. “Get him to the hospital if the medicos don’t get here first,” he snarls. “These two to solitary.”

 

 

 

 

“So what are they doing for him?” Towne asks. We’re sitting in the staffroom, debriefing, our bodies panting and sighing and still pumped full of adrenaline. The entire unit is on lockdown. Noone knows for certain what happened or who’s to blame, though the prison population seems to have divided threeways—into the people who despise Engarde, the people who despise Crescend, and those who are terrified of Tobaye, all wanting their chosen to be the guilty party and to get his comeuppance. It feels like a very cynical, dirty state election: the population siding with who they despise the least rather than supporting someone they like.

 

“He’s on painkillers for the moment and they’re trying to reset what they can,” Parke says tightly. “They were actually concerned that he was going to lose a few fingers and there’s swelling the doctors are worried about.” There’s resignation in his voice, something worn out and threatening to crack. “Right now they’re assessing the damage and they’re talking about the possibility of prepping him for surgery. He’s in the kind of pain I don’t think anyone in here can imagine. I sure as hell can’t.”

 

Hamm’s eyes widen with disgust. “Where were the cameras? I thought they spent money fixing them?”

 

“Engarde pulled the camera out of the ceiling,” Towne mutters. “Everything started when he climbed onto the piano and— _bang_. It seems that the repairmen who came in to fix the damned things managed to ignore this area. “Understandable, since most of the rooms here are offices, but—“

 

“We are in the process of being sent what was on the camera before it was sabotaged,” Parke says. “All we have before that—“

 

“I can tell you _that,"_ sniffs Towne _. "_ Engarde was being his usual self,” he says viciously. He sounds as though he desperately wants to suffix everything he’s saying with _I told you letting Engarde back in there was a bad idea_ but he manages to continue his story. “I’d asked him several times to sit down and _work on something_ —“ His voice stiffens—“Or that his behaviour towards Crescend was inappropriate—“ His voice quietens and an audible note of irritation creeps into it. “He kisses Crescend on the cheek—Crescend at this point is trying to tune a guitar there, and he’s muttering to himself. Engarde’s found an old microphone—one of those cheap ones with the batteries—a Mr. Singalong type thing—you guys know what I’m talking about—and he’s— _simulating oral sex with it_ —“ an embarrassed glance around the room—“and making up a lewd song about various things he would like Crescend to do to him.” He sniffs. “I ignored him, of course, because that was all the behaviour was—a plea for attention—“

 

“Who the fuck decided Engarde should be in there anyw—“ someone mumbles, only to be shushed with something about a behaviour contract and Engarde’s recent lack of unsafe behaviour.

“A second later, Crescend is on the other side of the room swearing because a guitar string has broken, and since it’s a potential weapon, I head over to remove it, and then I hear Tobaye yell out, and see Engarde standing on the piano holding the camera he’s pulled out of the ceiling, by the cord, like it’s a dead rat.” He stops, and inhales. “He swung it at Tobaye’s head, I yelled out, and radioed up for backup—Engarde jumps off the piano,  pushes me out of the way—it turned out that the radio call didn’t come through because no one’s coming, I radio again—by this point there’s just smashing and screaming and the three of them are huddled together around the piano—“

“So you didn’t see who hit who--?” I ask.

Towne’s glare shoots daggers at me. “Nope,” he says, his glare now directed towards Parke—“I was trying to work out whether my radio was out of juice or on the wrong channel or what was going on. I hit the duress, and the rest is—well—“ He calms sightly, shifting back into his seat. “Now we have two in solitary and one in hospital.”

“I came in to see someone—I couldn’t positively see which one of them—smashing the piano lid repeatedly over Tobaye’s fingers,” says Field uncomfortably.

“From my angle it looked like Engarde was holding Tobaye there, and it was Crescend smashing the lid down—but—“

 

“They’re both equally to blame,” Towne says in disgust—“That was _planned_. Engarde was just putting on a choirboy act to get in there with Crescend and Tobaye. Why we let him is—“

 

Denham interrupts. “Is he going to be able to… play piano again…?”

 

Parke sighs. “He’s a tough little shit, so who knows? But I’m willing to bet that it’s going to be a long time, and he probably won’t sound anything like he used to. The look the doctor gave me was hardly suggestive of a happy ending.”

 

Waverley, who’s been noticeably quiet since the incident surrounding the broken door in the telephone room, can’t help but make a wisecrack. “I suppose we won’t have to worry about Tobaye punching anyone after this, though.” No one says anything. “Silver lining, people.” There are a few laughs amongst people, though I’m unsure whethere they’re the nervous laughs of not knowing how to criticise an offensive joke, or genuine amusement.

 

I sip my coffee and feel a sense of nausea run through me. The piano was the one thing Tobaye had to keep him from the insanity of this place. The piano set him free in a way that the others weren’t. And with a few brutal movements, it was stolen from him.

 

 

 

Engarde has absolutely no remorse about the incident with Tobaye. When I knock on his door in the solitary wing, he peers out from the corner and grins. “Hey, Doc,” he calls out. “Can you tell management I need a shower? I don’t like stinking like this, dude.” He wrinkles his nose, childishly, thoroughly over the top. “It’s cruel and unusual. You guys aren’t allowed to do this to us. I wouldn’t say I have that manly _musk_ , dude, more that I smell of sweat and piss because I’m stuck in here.”

I clear my throat.

 

“It’s bad for my _mental health_ ,” he says, with a touch of a grin in his voice suggesting that he finds the whole thing amusing. Tobaye, who is little more than a child, might lose some fingers and the one source of pride in his life, and _Engarde_ needs to have a wash?  
  
Parke’s standing next to me. “This is serious, Engarde,” he growls. Engarde jumps backwards like he’s been electrocuted as the door opens. Clearly he was not expecting to see Parke. “We need to have a talk about what happened to Machi Tobaye.” Parke edges into the cell warily. I’m still standing to his left, waiting and watching. If Parke’s attempt at discussion fails, I’m regarded as a staff member who has good rapport with Engarde. I blink at his childish, innocent-looking face.  
  
 _Lucky me._

  
“He seemed to get his fingers stuck in the piano lid,” Engarde chirps. “And I _think_ Crescend kind of made sure they stayed under there for awhile.” He has a naïve, sweet-natured look on his face, the expression of a celebrity telling fans never to use drugs while harbouring a serious cocaine problem. “I think he smashed the cover down a few times, too, you know.”  
  
It’s enough to make Parke lose it, and he steps out, disgusted, pushing me behind him. The door slams behind us, autolocking. I raise my eyebrows, already considering the potential safety issues this could bring about.  
  
“Do you realise--?” Parke roars, spit flying from the corners of his mouth, his voice roaring through the observation slot--“That a young man might never play the piano again because of you? A _kid_ , Engarde— he’s a fucken _kid_.”  
  
Combing his side fringe out of the way and blinking casually, Engarde looks a bit taken back by the screaming but otherwise unperturbed. “He can still whore his ass out for Gant’s buddies, right?” His question is innocent. There’s acid beneath the innocence, though. It’s not even that Engarde is indifferent to Tobaye’s suffering, there’s a sense of righteousness about it, as though Tobaye somehow deserves it.  
  
“Maybe I should have made him more useful and knocked some teeth out while he was there.” He shrugs, then deciding to offer an explanation. “So he can suck dick better.”  
  
I watch Parke carefully. I can see his hand forming into a tight, pulsing fist, bulging with tension and rage. For a second, I’m terrified he’s going to lash out—either smashing his hand into the door with such force that he’ll break bones, or that he’ll somehow charge through and strike Engarde in his spiteful, scarred face.

 

Instead, he steps backwards, furiously storming away from the door. He’s not going to let that smug little punk get the better of him, and he knows that. Not today. I shift alongside him in silence, and before I’ve even realised, I’m on the outside again, reeling with the echo of the slam which rings in my ears. We need a breather before re-entering the solitary confinement section.

 

 

 

“Engarde says _I_ did it?” Crescend blinks beneath a sheet of ratty black hair. “That’s pretty fucken rich coming from him. He was _laughing_ as he did it. He punched the little fucker in the back of the neck and threatened to fuck him while he was stuck there, the sick cunt—“ His voice speeds up and his pale, sharp eyes turn to me. “And _you_ know what he’s like,” he snaps. “He’s got a _history_ for violence and sadism. It’s bad enough what he does to you when he _likes_ you.” There’s a desperation in his voice, and a look, as though I owe him, as though we’re on the same side here.  
  
 _So_ this _was why you were letting Engarde do whatever he wanted to you, Crescend. So he could take the fall—with evidence, for your assault upon Tobaye_. I attempt the perfectly neutral poker face, wondering if Crescend sees right through it. I don’t trust him.  
  
The irritation of it all is that I want to agree with him; I _do_ agree with him, though Parke speaks up angrily.  
  
“I dunno what the deal was between you and Engarde, but it’s documented that you were doing as much as he was to Tobaye, Crescend,” Parke says darkly.

“Prove it,” he spits back. “Engarde tore the camera out of the ceiling. No one saw _shit_.”

“Except the worker who was in the room with the two of you.”  
  
“Engarde’s bribed him, hasn’t he?” Crescend sounds like he’s making a final pull for victim status. Parke just glares right through him.  
  
“Engarde wasn’t the one who had history with Tobaye,” Parke growls. The innocence doesn’t work on him, and he glares into Crescend’s face, uncompromising and disgusted.    
  
“No. Of course not.” Crescend’s voice has taken on the same nasty sarcasm as Parke’s. “Tobaye’s just buddied up with his former—god, I don’t _know_ what that fucking trainwreck was; I’m not dignifying it by calling it a relationship.” His words are venomous and disbelieving. “ _He’s_ the one with the crazy history.”  
  
“You’re the one who was calling Tobaye a snitch,” Parke snarls back at him. My gaze shifts to Parke’s face, and I can see the disappointment that he’s trying oh-so-desperately to hide. “I thought the mediation had sorted things out between you two and you could use the music room like adul—“  
  
“Engarde wanted him dead because Gavin’s fucking him,” Crescend says. His eyes dart back to me. “He _likes_ ‘em young and blonde, _doesn’t he_?” He spits out the words as though he’s eaten something rotten. “You _all_ know that, don’t you?” he asks. His gaze moves over to Parke. “And it ain’t just me saying it: even Gant will back me up on that—“  
  
“We’re not asking you about Kristoph Gavin,” Parke growls. “We want to know what the _fuck_ happened to Tobaye in there.” His voice grows louder and more furious; playtime is over. “Thanks to you and Engarde, a kid may lose his fingers and the one thing he had any pride in.” And Parke’s making a plea for sympathy, stopping the smile that’s creeping across Crescend’s lips—“ _Really_ ,” he says softly. “You came in here to hurt _a child_? I credited you with more basic decency than that, Crescend.”  
  
Crescend stares at him blankly. “I lost everything because of that kid,” he says in monotone. “I lost my job, my life, my creative outlet, my _work_ , _my passion._ I lost my musical outlet _too._ ”  
  
Parke doesn’t look taken in by it. “Don’t forget you shot a man in cold blood. That was your fault, not the kid’s.”  
  
“I was doing the right thing getting that fucking coccoon sent over here. Either way, that judge’s kid was going to die either because of that disease or because someone fucked up the cocoon—better to die taking a chance than to just die anyway, ain’t it?” His voice has softened. He’s playing it smooth. He might be rough around the edges and coarse and angry, but he’s also clever enough—and has interacted with people enough as a detective and as a rockstar, presumably—to know how to charm people into falling for his words. 

  
Parke softens slightly, from the looks of things. He blinks, as though urging Crescend to continue. And he does, sitting up on his feet, almost lunging forward, his hair falling over his shoulders in lank sheets of darkness.

 

“Now the little fucker knows what it’s like to lose everything, don’t he?” His smile is brutal and cutting, a fuck-you punch to the face. When the door closes, I wish I felt angrier with him. Instead, all I have is a sense of profound disappointment.

 

 

 

 

“Neither of them give a shit,” Parke mutters. We’re in his office, having a meeting. Parke and I, Knox Field, Lily and Denham, the caseworkers of the inmates involved. Unlike the staffroom, which is cluttered with an old linoleum-topped table and chairs that probably entered the facility not long after it was built, and an urn that breaks down every five years and stained, ancient plastic coffee cups, not to mention the clutter of a vending machine and televisions lined up on the wall; Parke’s office is bright and stark and it feels empty. There are stacks of A4 paper on his desk, and notes scribbled on a whiteboard, but beyond that, nothing to suggest that Parke has a life away from the place. The last time I was in here, there were a couple of music posters on the wall; now; nothing. It's as though the prison-- and his role within it, has annihilated any semblance of a personality.

 

“We need to do something about them,” Field snaps. “What this is going to do to Tobaye—“

Parke smiles at him grimly. It appears that Tobaye has gotten under his skin as well.

  
“It’s a case of what’s already been _done_ to him,” he says gently. “And we _are_ doing what we can for him. One of the reasons I called this meeting is to let you know that Tobaye may need escorting to the local hospital. I’m waiting on word from the doctors at the moment.”

  
Denham’s voice is quiet and serious. “We’re going to need escorts to the hospital if that happens, right?”

  
“Towne’s already ringing the front desk seeing if we can wrangle some casuals in here,” Parke says. “Otherwise, a few of us get overtime and a late start tomorrow.”

  
At the mention, Lily’s gaze turns towards Parke in a completely interested fashion. But he doesn’t return the interest.

 

“So we’re already expecting him to be in the hospital, aren’t we?” Field has suddenly realised what this means. “This kid’s _fucked_ , isn’t he?”

 

There’s a heavy silence hanging over all of us, which Parke breaks quickly. “We need to deal with Engarde and Crescend,” he says. “Given that their romance seems to have come to a hasty and dramatic finish, we’re going to have yet another drama on our hands when they’re returned to the unit.”

  
“Engarde needs to go elsewhere,” Denham says. “He’s had enough chances here and—“

  
“I’d agree with you, but A-wing’s the highest staff-inmate ratio, most secure unit in the facility. They’re not going to want him in with the small-timers—he’s resource-intensive. Without the staff, he’s going to cause a security risk.”  
  
“And he’s likely to get worse in an unfamiliar environment,” I blurt out without thinking. Everyone stares at me, Denham and Field looking particularly irritated with my assessment.   

“So we move Crescend?” Lily asks. “Where to? His reputation precedes him. Putting him in with men he’s put away in his former life is… not fair.” She grabs the back of her ponytail with both hands and tugs on it, tightening it. “What about moving Tobaye? He’s going to be a concern when he gets back on the floor.”

  
Parke sighs. “That could be a long time away. And he’s probably going to be spending time in the psych unit for a while anyway, given the exposure to trauma and the fact that he’ll likely need rehab—“

  
Parke’s phone rings and his hand darts down to retrieve it. I can’t hear what’s being said on the other end of the line, though there’s a nod, a “Uh-huh,” and a “Thankyou” from Parke, and I know what’s happened. He puts the phone down, and in a completely unsurprised voice, reveals the plan for the evening.

  
“That was the nurse on duty. Tobaye’s being moved to hospital; Lily—anyone else—want some overtime?”

Lily stands as though she’s ready to leave. No one else does anything.

“I guess that’s settled, then,” Parke says. “Lily and I are headed to the hospital on escort, I’ll see you people tomorrow.”

 

 

 

It feels lonely walking out of the prison at the end of the day. Lonely and exhausting, like I’ve trudged through hell only to be confronted with quiet that I’m not really accustomed to and I’m too tired to appreciate.

Except that it’s never quiet here. Not entirely.

 

My footsteps tap against the floor, and because it’s after hours and the side exit is no longer accessible, I need to make my way across the unit to get to the main corridor. I hear the voices of inmates swelling and echoing around me.

 

“…Tobaye’s on life support; Engarde and Crescend iced the little fuck…”

 

“…That kid’s hooked up; wouldn’t wanna fuck with him…”

 

“…I never knew Engarde  had _balls_ …”

 

“…Who needs balls when you got _crazy_?”

 

 _Tap tap tap_.

Amongst the yelling, no one seems to notice me leaving. Except one person.

 

Standing by his door, his silken hair hanging loose, and recently-brushed, his miserable navy-blue prison-issue pyjamas buttoned up as though he’s attempting to maintain some semblance of good grooming, I can see Gavin taking in everything happening around him. He spies me and raises an eyebrow—and like a moth pulled by the glow of the lethal blue light, I move towards him without realising why. Mid-step, I’m irritated by my action, but I can’t stop now.

  
There is a book in his hand, and I strain to make out the title. _The Sorrows of Young Werther_ —Goethe—fittingly sombre given the mood surrounding us. Gavin notices me studying the book, and his eyes sparkle wth recognition, smiling into contented arcs. But it happens slowly, like it’s a considered action. And I can’t just walk away from him.

  
Around him, men share rooms and space and property. They may like or loathe or be indifferent to one another, but they still have company. Gavin does not. He has a still kind of calm and a depressing classic in his hand.

“Gavin.”

He pushes his glasses up his nose. “Hello, Doctor,” he says in monotone.

  
And there’s an awkward silence between us; I know that he knows what’s happened and he knows that I know it; there’s an exchange between us, just a glance, that suggests we’re on the same wavelength as we’re looking through the window at one another.

  
“I would like to see you tomorrow,” he says. “If you are not consumed with other matters.”

  
I merely nod. “I’ll see if that can be arranged, Mr. Gavin.”

  
He smiles slightly. “Thankyou Doctor,” he says. “Though I would prefer it to be in the afternoon, once my visit has ended.”

  
 I wonder if he’s wishing to talk to me because he’s concerned about the aftermath of the visit, or he’s worried about Tobaye. Perhaps the young man got under his skin, too.


	36. Sleight of Hand

“He’s not looking good.”

Neither is Parke who’s just said that. He has dark circles under his eyes, like he’s rubbed them after realising that he hasn’t closed them in more than twenty-four hours, as though navy blue mascara has smudged beneath them, emphasising how hollow the little valleys under them really are, how fragile he actually is. And then there’s the jittery urgency-- of someone who is dead tired but who’s had too many coffees and cannot sleep—which is given away by his movements. He’s death warmed up and then shocked with electric paranoia.

He sighs. “Poor kid’s on pain relief ‘til the swelling goes down a bit and they can see what they’re working with. They decided not to operate at the moment because they don’t want to make things worse.”

And he’s wandered into my office, blurting it all out even though I don’t really need to know, because I’m a last resort.

And then comes the stress. “And management are  _pissed_  about this one. I’ve had deNong on the phone giving me hell already—the only silver lining he can see is that they probably won’t be sending us any more kids from juvie now that this has happened. Tobaye’s set precedent, hasn’t he?”

Not that he sounds grateful or anything. It just sounds, more than anything, that he needs to keep himself talking, just like he needs to keep himself busy and thinking and awake and drinking coffee—ironically—in order to not collapse.

I don’t know what to say. Of course, I could argue that we probably never would get another Tobaye-- Tobaye was a special case. How many other juvenile delinquents are as… unique and as damaged and as dangerous as he is? How many kids have we seen here in the years we’ve worked here? None. Tobaye was a freak of the system, an experiment which went horribly wrong, and a warning to our neighbours in the juvenile system to manage their own. Of _course_ there’s more to it than what happened. I wonder if there were people higher up pulling strings on purpose, and I wonder what sort of in-fighting there is between the powers that be in the juvenile system and our higher-ups, the people whose names exist in general emails and in media reports but who may not even exist in our reality.

And I wonder if Parke—who is always so in tune with the between-the-lines political games of this place— has wondered about the same thing.

Watching him sigh—maybe he has, maybe he hasn’t—I change the subject.

“Has there been any word about charging Engarde and Crescend for the assault?”

“Nope,” he tells me. “Even though Tobaye’s lawyer—you know that Justice kid in the red suit—the one who did a shithouse job defending Engarde when he was in court?—he popped in last night to see him. Not that either of them were up to much communication: Tobaye was bombed out on painkillers and the lawyer looked like he was going to throw up.”

I frown. How the hell did Justice now about Tobaye’s condition? Are there _more_ connections and behind-the-scenes plots to worry about?

“That was pretty cluey of the lawyer to show up.” I chuckle darkly, eyebrow raised. “I didn’t know Gavin trained them to watch their former clients and chase ambulances.” I’m surprised. That seems awfully cheap and desperate for a student of Kristoph Gavin.

Parke shakes his head. “Not the case,” he says. “During one of the moments when Tobaye _was_ making sense, he asked me to call his lawyer. So I… sort of looked for his number. Tobaye said the lawyer would help him since he did in the past.”

“He doesn’t hold it against the lawyer that he wound up in jail to begin with?”

“No,” Parke says. “I asked him the same thing. He blames Crescend and his own government for that one. Kid’s not stupid, though, he knows he got a good deal and that he’d have faced the firing squad back home. Probably without any kind of hearing or representation beforehand.”

“Did he talk much?”

“Not really,” Parke says. “Though he’s said he wants to see you as soon as possible.”

 “Will that be in the hospital or back here?”

“He should be coming back soon enough—once they’ve operated, he’s back with us for pain management and physio.”

“Back on the  _unit_?”

“We’re holding him in the psych ward for awhile since in the early days he’s going to be in and out of appointments all the time anyway. And… I’m concerned about him.”

There’s something Parke isn’t quite saying to me.

“I’ve seen that kid flip when he’s not even that – _emotively angry—_  with someone. Remember the first day when he attacked Callander in the kitchen? He didn’t even know the guy. Everyone who saw it said that he just did it with ruthless cold-blooded efficiency… and you saw Callander afterwards. He was a _mess._ ”

I nod. “Has he talked about revenge?” Or does Parke just _know_ that this isn’t over, that Tobaye isn’t scared and won’t lose face like that? All he does is looks at me witheringly: _What do you_ think _is going to happen now, Doc?_ I’m waiting for his theory, though.

His voice rises, incredulous. “What’s Tobaye going to do to the man who is responsible for both him being here in the first place and now no longer being able to play the piano? We’re talking a kid who _called a hit_ on _Moreau_ , apparently because of some fucking  _phone calls_. Now we have his number one enemy, who’s just pissed him off even more—“

“And Engarde,” I interrupt—

“Right— _and_  Engarde—whom he despises because of that creepy alliance he has with Gavin—“ Parke sighs. “I could kill Engarde and Crescend for this. Though maybe it was part of some grander scheme—like lighting a Roman candle and throwing it in here just to see what happens? Maybe someone set them up to it? I dunno. Think about what’s happened to Tobaye: suddenly he has absolutely nothing to lose, and everything to gain by starting something.”

I agree with him, and I nod slowly. “But _would_ he?” I ask. “He’s… only a kid. His English is limited. He doesn’t have a lot of influence amongst the unit.” Which is all true. “Him and—well—what army—as they say? It’s not like he’s got a Gavinners-sized fanbase.” I frown at the bad pun. It’s not even like the Gavinners have a fanbase any more.  

“I was talking to Field and Lily earlier,” says Parke. “Apparently he’s got more supporters than you’d think: there are people who like him because they despise Engarde and Crescend… There are people who don’t really _care_ either way but who’ve known those two for years and who’d love to see someone take them down. And then there are the punks who just want to see chaos and don’t want to be involved themselves.” Parke sighs. “I don’t want Tobaye back on the unit when he returns. He’s a liability. And he’s going to have backup.”

He’s thinking aloud, and I’m sitting there, my concern growing, his thoughts spilling out of his head and into conversation, no longer held in place by a brain which has had adequate sleep. “We can’t keep him in the psych unit forever-- they won’t have him that long, and unfortunately for everyone—Machi’s going to recover at some point and you’re going to have to put him  _somewhere._ ” I’m now wondering if Parke’s thinking about some of Waverley’s less compassionate comments.

“You can’t try and get him  _deported_?”

“No! I’m not that much of an asshole. Engarde, maybe, but I wouldn’t do that to the kid.” Parke chuckles under his breath, like he’s just uttered a filthy double entendre. “No… but I’m thinking that he might be better off in PC.”

“Protective?” I can already imagine what an already-furious Tobaye with a wounded reputation would do in Protective in order to prove his machismo. “He’s not going to go quietly, and it’s likely he’ll cause some… issues… if he gets moved there without his consent.”

“I realise this,” Parke says. “That’s why I’d like you to help me convince him.”

 

 

Lily and I are smoking out the front of the building, Lily relying on the nicotine to keep her awake after last night’s overtime; me, wondering if I’ve become addicted to heading outdoors and away from the stifling environment of the prison-- when both of us are distracted, looking up at the same thing.

I shouldn’t say  _thing_. The young woman is in her early twenties, wearing a slick, knee-length black dress which looks at odds with the white round-toe ankle boots and fishnet stockings on her legs. And _this_ looks perfectly at odds with the powder blue top hat and cloak she’d thrown over the rather unorthodox getup which is some sort of out-there combination of stage glamour and theatrical camp and quirky high-end fashion. Her hair is dark auburn and in a chin-length bob—the most ordinary thing about her appearance—and still completely random amongst the rest of her fashion choices. She’s a selection of strange ideas turned individual. And she walks along with a jaunty step and the kind of cheerful naivete which makes me feel almost sorry for her when I think about her visiting one of the men behind the wall.

“Whoa,” Lily murmurs as she passes, that one expression managing to convey a mixture of confusion and awe. “Y’see all kinds here, doncha?”

I blink, watching the young woman approaching the front desk. Grant is talking to her, and she removes her hat. Suddenly, it looks as though there is a second person standing next to her, wearing her cloak. Even through the glazing which is meant to be soundproof, I can hear the expletive which he yells in shock. Lily and I stand by the window, peering in with the interest of pre-teens sneaking into an adult movie, hoping neither Grant nor the visitor notice us. His shock is utterly hilarious, as is the young woman’s complete nonchalance.

We see her place the hat back on and then walk through the metal detector; red lights flashing and the dull low  _beep_  of “No entry” suggesting she’s harbouring contraband. She steps back, opens her cloak and removes a magic wand. Grant leans over and studies it and flowers pop out of the end. Lily is giggling to herself.

And that’s the last we see of her—when we head back inside through the staff entrance—and only then—we smile at one another. The random eccentricity of someone’s visitor has halted our need to debrief and to listen to one another bleed out and absorb things which we cannot change at all. I wish there were more visitors and moments like this.

 

 

Gavin looks worried when he enters the office for his session. Something has been taken from him, some of the smugness, some of the calm amusement, that way he seems to act as though this is all part of a game where he can already predict how I’m going to move. He looks shellshocked and blank, and he doesn’t say anything when he sits down—it’s unusual. Generally there’s some circling, polite conversation, acknowledgement. Right now, though, nothing.

“So,” I offer, “I suppose you’ve heard about what happened to your room mate.”

He just nods silently for a moment before backing it up with a statement. “Parke told me,” he says after a bit. “They destroyed him.”

It sounds like one of Gavin’s typically theatrical statements, but it’s true. And it’s not uttered with his usual sneer; there’s concern or shock in his voice, like he still can’t quite believe it either, and has forgotten that he’s meant to be coolly detached from the world.

“And I had my visit with Ms. Wright this afternoon.” Ahh. Back to the controlled, knowing smirk in his voice.

“Oh.” Is this his way of changing the subject to avoid a painful topic? No: he wanted to see me in regards to the visit before this happened. Does he not care? Possibly. I wait for him to steer the conversation in whichever direction he chooses. He doesn’t make that choice.

“You seem to be a bit—“ I start to say, helplessly fumbling for words. A bit  _what_? I know nothing of the visit with Trucy Wright beyond that it took place. I have never been through the drama of having an associate tortured and mutilated by other familiars including a former… intimate partner. Should I be surprised that he appears a bit quieter than usual? Maybe he’s trying to make as much sense of the entire mess as I am.

He raises an eyebrow at me, tilting his head down slightly. “I deeply regret the events that took place in the music room,” he says. “While I had nothing to do with them—“ He trails off. He sounds entirely insincere.

 

I pretend to be convinced, and make a brief, scribbled note of that on the papers on my desk. Gavin watches me carefully, and breaks off, eyeing me with a combination of suspicion and what looks like newfound interest.

“Oh?” he asks in a drawl, those blue eyes meeting mine, his face tilted forward, in an expression that could look enthusiastic and friendly but which could also, I realise, look like a game face in preparation for combat—“I’m a suspect, now?”

I hadn’t even considered that, but the way Gavin reacted to me simply jotting down a scrawl—which I’m sure he can’t read from where he’s sitting with his short-sightedness—makes me wonder.

Or is this part of some new gambit? Does he  _want_ me to think he’s a suspect? Why? Who would he be protecting? Names rush at me: Engarde is off the list, there’s no communication there—Tobaye is—why would he do  _that_? Is he hoping to curry favour with Crescend? I raise an eyebrow involuntarily. Crescend despises him. The possibility of the player being played without his knowledge occurs to me; maybe he underestimated the depth of Crescend’s loathing.

And maybe he’s about to get caught off guard.

And alone—with no one save a couple of staff prepared to tolerate his presence. To most of these men, Gavin is a monster of the worst kind. And his menacing presence—his stature, his relatively unscathed escapes from both other inmates and staff alike has afforded him a position not to be envied. Alone, he stands as solid and ominous as a totem pole. If men were to attack him individually, they would be stupid.

To attack him as a group, though, is something else entirely.

He blinks, stretching his legs in front of him. “Trucy Wright knows about you,” he says idly, relaxing back into the chair.

I’m not sure whether I’m grateful for his derailing my train of thought or irritated by it. Clearly this was a move to flatter me, to capture my attention, to gain my interes—

“Oh?” I ask. “What did she have to say?”

He smirks at me, and that flash in his eyes says it all— _Score: Gavin-- one, the good doctor-- nil_. He’s caught me off guard with a personal comment. I’m so frequently not considered in that way that I give in to it without even realising. Though I’ve given in to Gavin before and it bothers me, it makes me feel as though I’m embarrassingly narcissistic.

“She certainly said quite a few things.” He’s smiling at me. In that disturbed, proud, and thoroughly amused kind of way, in the same way that he looked so calm and controlled before allowing details of some sort of  _plan_  that he was most pleased with to leak forth. Like when he’d set up the assault upon Crescend just to test his library route of miscommunication amongst the other inmates. Like when he had tried to kill Phoenix Wright and Miles Edgeworth with the poisoned lubricant. It’s  _that_  sort of look, and it unnerves me.

“It seems that Miss Wright became quite emotional towards me and has gotten the idea from  _somewhere_ —“he flicks a piece of dust off his shoulder—it looks like a piece of dust, but then I realise as it hits the lino floor that it’s a tiny spider which scurries away over the grey-white surface—“that I’ve had the ability—the  _magic_ , I guess you could say—to somehow  _tinker_  with the affairs of both of our brothers.” His voice is smooth. “Clearly I can see that the young lady is hysterical, perhaps it’s that combination of venturing into the world for oneself and beginning a career and—“

He stops himself there.

I’m staring  at him without meaning to, a part of me judging where I shouldn’t, feeling that he views Trucy Wright as every bit as insignificant as Miles Edgeworth—or that spider which is now somewhere in my office—and that I’m processing this madly, trying to catch up with what his thoughts may be. It feels like I’m running a race and I can’t quite equal him: I’m older and more tired, and he’s—

“Surely I wouldn’t concern myself with the affairs of a girl on the cusp of adulthood,” he says with a chuckle. Is there irony in his voice?  _Vera Misham was twelve years old and you tried to kill her—_

“What was Ms. Wright suggesting you did?” I ask, ignoring the way he’s taking glee in his involvement.

“All I did was send some letters,” he tells me innocently. “Anyone would have thought, from Miss Wright’s outburst that she was a jealous lover—of which of the two, it’s hard to say.” He blinks innocently, though I regard the movement as anything but. Is he wanting to provoke a reaction from me? I don’t react.

“She had some sort of device with her,” he continues. “A curiousity, really, at first glance it appeared to be a pair of very old women’s underpants.” He wrinkles his nose in distaste. “I’m surprised that it was able to come through the security checks, to be honest.” He pauses, though I’m unsure if it’s for effect or because he’s in the act of planning something.

I’m trying to race ahead of him mentally. Will Trucy be his next target?

Or am I being paranoid?

“It’s curious,” he continues, as though the idea has suddenly occurred to him—“Many of the other inmates seem to have penpals, don’t they?”

“I can’t say I know about that, Mr. Gavin.” I straighten up in my seat, desperate to regain composure. I’m going to learn more from him by listening, not theorising.

“And anyway, we aren’t here to talk about other clients.”

He continues, ignoring me. “I wasn’t really talking about  _them_ ,” he says, “Merely wondering about the fact that they seem to have these women—who write to them.”

“Hybristophilia,” I inform him. “The sexual attraction to those who have committed heinous acts against another—“

“Even  _Callander_  has his admirers,” Gavin says with a sniff of disgust. “Though I seem to have relatively few women interested in me—“ He stares at his hands absently. “Perhaps someone’s tampering with my mail,” he suggests—“But no—I was just wondering—“  

I don’t say anything, curious as to where he’s going. He’s jumping all over the place today, as much as he’s trying to glaze everything over with his cool amusement. He’s losing his chains of thought; they’re intangible and melting into others. I’m not used to this Gavin. Listening to him is like watching a man be devoured by quicksand.

“Miss Wright,” he tells me, rage starting to come into his voice, “Had been  _reading my mail_. To Klavier. And Justice. And—“

_You were writing to them?_  I’m unsure why this distresses him as much as it does. And then it occurs to me: it’s control. Is this what his scattered demeanour is all about? Trucy opening his _mail_?

“I value my privacy, doctor, as you are aware,” he says. “If I choose to reveal things to particular people, I choose to reveal these things. I do  _not_  say certain things to some only to have  _others_ step in and censor me or involve themselves somehow.” His head turns and his nostrils flare noticeably. I’m not sure I’ve actually seen him looking this irritated before, and once again I wonder about his breakdown in court when it was revealed that he’d been behind murder and setting up Phoenix Wright. This is unnerving. That must have been a whole new level of disturbing.

“You have, though,” I offer tepidly, “Invaded the privacy of other people, haven’t you?” I ask.

He sniffs, glaring haughtily before bringing his hands together to clap quietly. “Bravo, Doctor,” he says. He stops clapping to push he glasses up his nose, his eyes firmly on mine and cold and furious. “I’m sure you were waiting for that moment, weren’t you, where you could point out that I’m a hypocrite for wanting privacy—a basic human right—“

“You appear to be quite defensive today, Mr. Gavin.”

He freezes. “I apologise,” he says. His voice stops rapidly, its tone halted like a speeding engine killed in an instant. “I’ve had a rather turbulent day.”

I lean in slightly towards him, wondering if this—this displaced anger and his rage towards Trucy Wright—is the closest I’ll get to seeing him concerned about someone. It’s almost touching, beneath the fury and the knowledge I have that he may in fact be plotting her downfall—or murder—while he stews on his anger and releases it at something unrelated to his own circumstances.

“I can imagine it’s hard for you,” I tell him.

He bows his head slightly, and rubs his temples. His ugly prison-issue glasses move with his skin.

“Tell me, then, Doctor,” he says in a strained, quiet voice that suggests it agonises him to even admit to wanting to ask whatever it is, “Have you spoken to Engarde?”

_Engarde? What does Engarde have to do with anything?_

“I want to know how he is.” His voice is quiet and dignified, dumbfounding me. How the hell am I supposed to tell him that Engarde is unrepentant and thoroughly gleeful about his behaviour? Why does he have any interest in Engarde’s reaction—sure—Engarde is—in his mind—former property, an ex-pawn—I’m disgusted with my own cynicism even though I’m aware it’s  _true_ —but why the interest in Engarde and not his friend—well, associate, at least?

“Engarde is in solitary,” I explain. “As is Crescend—which I’m sure you’d have expected.”

He nods, and then looks at me, his eyes regretful. “I was surprised with Engarde’s behaviour,” he says. “There is something especially brutal about robbing a man of the one thing he loves.”

Maybe he never really knew Engarde. I stretch in my seat, steepling my fingers and stretching my hands out in front of me. There’s a particular irony in the way Crescend told me that Engarde was ruined and turned into a sadistic monster by Gavin, and here is Gavin—after Engarde’s involvement with Crescend—about to say the same thing.

I want to laugh. Something in my body language changes enough to give it away; maybe I’m displaying a comfort or calmness to mask the amusement.

And Gavin pounces on that with the speed of a hawk.

“Why the amusement, doctor?” he asks gently. His eyes have that sparkle back in them. It’s truly a  _wonderful_ thing to be able to pull him out of the doldrums by providing him with some interactive fun.  _Really, Mr. Gavin_. I feel like the subject of an entermologist. When the entermologist is holding a pin in one hand. Ill and uncertain and not completely understanding why.

“I thought these sorts of subjects bothered you.” A broader smile, like he’s cracked through something, and has tapped into some darker recess in my brain. It’s a look of pure ownership. It terrifies me. Are we still on the same page or has there been miscommunication somewhere along the line?

“What subjects are we talking about?” I ask. I’m not completely certain what he’s alluding to, but he’s back to his sunny self.

“Perhaps something has been awakened within you, hmmm?” He blinks. “Could it be that our interaction has impacted upon you as it has me and—“

_That’s funny, Mr. Gavin._

“--it’s  made you much more comfortable with your—shall we say—more  _base_  interests?”

I’m not sure what he’s talking about, but I do believe there’s some attempt at comparison. Does he want me to empathise with him? Flashes of his activities since our interaction flicker through my head like crime scene photographs being thrown at a suspect or an old movie playing on a reel, one still frame of horror—bloodied handprints on the walls of A-Wing and in the isolation cell—Engarde passed out and bleeding heavily on the bed—Engarde giggling about the bite in his shoulder—Daryan Crescend in hospital after being brutally attacked by a gang he had nothing to do with—Redd White’s lifeless body dangling from the sheet-rope in his cell in solitary—it only occurs to me then that  _yes_ , I  _do_  believe that was the work of Gavin—Engarde with a bloodied mess on his face because Gavin tore out his stitches—Engarde and Crescend’s attack on Machi Tobaye—one hideous snapshot after another—at a time.

Perhaps the latter is an unfair accusation. Perhaps he had nothing to do with it; Engarde and Crescend used one another equally to both get revenge on someone whom they despised for their own reasons. But perhaps— _perhaps_ —if Engarde hadn’t been drawn in to Gavin’s mind games and become thoroughly  _intoxicated_ with the man, he wouldn’t have wanted to see Tobaye tortured, and he wouldn’t have become involved. Maybe if he’d had these untapped sadistic urges, they would have remained untapped or they would have been directed towards a more deserving—and I realise the arrogance of that thought only after I’ve had it—target.

It only occurs to me _then_ that I’m doing exactly what I thought it was foolish of Gavin and Crescend to do.  _Even though Gavin was perfectly aware of Engarde’s mercurial and needy personality and could have exercised more restraint in dealing with him_ , I suffix the thought with, peering back at Gavin when I realise that I’m lost in thought. You never just sit in a room and have a conversation with the man—you’re playing invisible chess with him. Constantly. While he’s changing the rules and getting to move your pieces, as well as his own.

I suck in my breath, and watch as he blinks, those blue eyes innocent yet hungry.

“Oh?” I ask. I sit up a little bit more. “In what way, do I seem more open to discussing these _base_ instincts, as you describe them, Mr. Gavin?” I’m keeping my voice steady and controlled. I’m not letting him scare me. To show intimidation is to get involved with him, to give him what he wants, to turn his therapy sessions into a game for is amusement—we shouldn’t even be discussing  _me_  to begin with. I run an index finger under the edge of my collar. This shirt feels too tight. Gavin smirks before giving his answer.

“As I said, I believe I may have underestimated Matt Engarde,” he says. The way he says his ex-cellmate’s name is almost maudlin. “Of course, I knew what was going on with Crescend, and I thought, quite naively, I suppose, that it was partially an act. I didn’t believe that his tastes ran parallel to my own.”

I hadn’t quite considered that, and the sheer brutality of it makes my heart stop for maybe a second. Here is a man who seemed to carry around grief and concern for what happened to Tobaye—his companion and friend—and possibly  _other things_ —and suddenly all his concern and grief is revealed to be for the nature of the man who was responsible for his injuries. All it took was a random smirk from me—about something completely unrelated—and he believes I’m a man of his tastes and mindset, perfectly unaware of his complete lack of empathy for the young man who has had his hands smashed to disfigurement.

He looks down at his fingers, and stretches them, his clear nail varnish catching the light and offering a clear white reflection in the same sort of way that his glasses sometimes do. “I didn’t think he would bloody his hands in such a fashion.” Another blink. He could be talking about his designer suits that he used to wear to court or reading the ingredient listing on a box of cereal. “There’s a particular  _bent_  you need to have to partake in something so diabolical.”

My voice has been lost somewhere.   
  
“And I thought all the sexual behaviour; Engarde’s apparent sadism towards Crescend—was at least partially to attempt to get under my skin rather than a sliver of a much larger picture.” He leans in a little, like he’s conspiring with me. We can talk about this because in his mind, we have a  _connection_  now. Like we’re teenage boys flicking through pilfered skin mags from a newsagency.

He smiles slightly.  _We’re in this together._  “Tell me, Doctor, _you_ didn’t think he had it in him, either, did you?”

“We—we try not to talk about other inmates here, Mr. Gavin.” I am staring at a complete monster. I am thinking of that horrible scream from Tobaye, I am remembering the dramatic streak of blood against white piano keys, Engarde’s nonchalance and suggestion that he at least Tobaye would have one use—by Gant and his cronies—as another whore on the unit. That wasn’t just about a simple, blood-thirsty assault, the thrill of action— _that_  was about gleefully tearing someone’s identity—and life—to pieces. A  _teenager’s_.

I can’t be unprofessional about this. He’s my client. And now—now that he thinks I have some sort of deeper understanding—or  _something_ —with him, he’s telling me what’s going on under the surface. And I don’t think he’s trying to horrify me any more. What’s horrifying now is how genuine he is.

He nods. “I shall try not to, then,” he says.

Is this  _respect_?

“Of course, I am  _dying_ to ask the man a few questions when he returns from solitary, but I realise that will have to wait. And that I cannot ask you, of course.” A sunny, choirboy smile. Of a man who tended roses and had pictures of his prison assistance dog in his unit. And who has bloodied, sharpened teeth behind those lips.

“I’m glad we have that understanding.”

He steeples his fingers again, and stretches his arms in front of him. “This is probably quite a bit more awkward for me than I am used to,” he continues. “I’m—not really used to discussing things like this.”

I nod, wondering, feeling almost ill—my heart is racing now, waiting-- 

“Not even with me?” I ask. Trying to be friendly and upbeat and gently reminding him why he’s here.

“With no one,” he says. “I’ve loved, I suppose you could say—and lost—before.”

I nod. Is this getting closer to  _another_  side of him? The side that lurks beneath the dangerous psychopath?

“I’ve wished to take revenge on former partners, I’ve wanted to make them  _pay_  for their desire to leave me, I’ve longed to—and  _have_  made men  _suffer_ their slights against me.” He smirks again. There’s something he isn’t telling me, some hideous memory he’s dredged up and wants to share.

I’m bracing myself. Another attempt on Phoenix Wright’s life? Another hideous assault upon his younger brother? Something terrible he did to his assistant--?

I clear my throat. “I understand that, Mr. Gavin.”

He looks down at my hands against the tabletop.

“Do you?” he asks. His voice is a purr. “When your wife left you, did you desire to shatter every last speck of her identity, Doctor, because at some point she’d promised herself to you and you to her and the two of you had something unbreakable that she willingly  _broke_? Did any part of you want to destroy whatever dignity she had left, to remind her of her departure, to  _ruin_  her?”

There’s rage in his voice as it grows faster. It’s a steely, cold rage, almost unemotional, and it’s terrifying. It’s the rage that methodically plots to destroy someone’s life over seven years while they are blissfully unaware. It’s the rage that sees competition where there is none. It’s the rage that tried to kill Miles Edgeworth. And Wright.

“Please don’t discuss my personal life in here, Mr. Gavin.” I am determined not to crack. I’m not losing face. I bring my hands together, criss-crossing my fingers, digging them into the backs of my hands. I’m looking him in the eye.  _I refuse to be scared of you, Gavin._

“You do not understand,” he says. His voice has softened. “I say these things and offer such examples not to upset you or intrude, but to try and see if you truly understand where I am coming from.”

“Perhaps I don’t,” I tell him. There’s a calm in the room now, we’re drifting into gentler waters, we’re leaving the indignation and question of understanding out of things. “But perhaps there is more to this, Mr. Gavin.”

“Oh?” he asks. “Care to amuse me, Doctor? I’m sure you’re going to talk about a need for control, perhaps linking it into some subconscious theory about how I cannot control myself therefore I need to control others, something about depersonalising those I’ve hurt because it means I don’t have to allow myself to feel empathy—is  _that_  what you want to tell me?”

I’m not surprised that he’s back to playing these sorts of games. Where I feel like a fish on the end of a hook, being wrenched up out of the safety of the water into constricting, oppressive air, only to be plunged back into the apparent safety of the water again, only to get pulled out before I can adjust.

I just blink. As though I’m shell shocked. Perhaps I’m bluffing. He doesn’t know. Maybe he’s trying to figure out what I’m doing.

“Before you accuse me of being a monster, I loved every one of them, as I’ve said on previous occasions—in my own way. Perhaps, by the end of it all, all I had was to know that I had them preoccupied with me, that I could coax a beautiful vulnerability from them, something which they only ever offered up for  _me_.” He leans back into his seat. His elbow rests on the arm rest, and the back of his hand is bent, propping up his chin. He looks as though he’s about to make some sort of move. His gaze is focussed on the blinds behind me.

“Never before, however, have I felt that those men were my equals.”

I nod. “I understand that,” I agree. I don’t know what to say beyond this, and am partially worried that agreeing with him will send forth more anger.

He ignores me. My observations are merely incidental breaks in his monologue. It doesn’t matter what I say to him. I don’t think it does, anyway.

He shifts in the chair. Is this him  _squirming_? I’m not sure—and I try not to look overly curious. Once again I hate myself for feeling intrusive and for wanting to avert my eyes for his comfort; this is how I can imagine performing a strip search would be.   
  
This is why I’m in this office and not on the floor. I look back at him.

“Up until my knowledge of the events in the music room, I didn’t truly know Matt Engarde,” he says. He’s still not looking at me. His gaze isn’t really focused on anything. It looks like he’s zoned out, like he’s deep in concentration about something else other than the topic at hand. 

And speaking of hands, that’s when I start to see it. He isn’t noticing how carefully I’m watching him, that I’m bluffing, that his own shift in attention is causing me to catch a glimpse of him like this. And his right hand is starting to shift; its scarring appears, like he’s been scalded quickly. I’m expecting him to self-consciously cover it—he doesn’t—he’s still looking haunted and horrified, staring into the space in front of him, like he doesn’t quite know—and doesn’t want to say what he’s going to.

Have I trapped him or has he trapped himself? I’m not sure. I’m fascinated. And horrified. This is the first time I’ve seen the skull appear like this—so quickly and so brazenly—and it’s like something out of a horror movie. I want to jump away. I want to film it. I want to scream. But I’m mesmerised.

_What the hell are you feeling, Gavin…?_

“I want him back,” he says defiantly. “Not because I’m terrified of him. Not because he could blackmail me. Not because I am angry with him and I need to teach him a lesson about betrayal and because I want to see just what I can do to him and for how long. Not because I can amuse myself controlling him… not even because I miss watching him go about his business, and I miss teaching him things and I miss coaxing the most exquisite— _things_ from him--   I want him back because he’s mine and always has been, Doctor, and because some part of _me_ that I’d never noticed _gone_ became  _his_. And I want that back, too. Could it be that the romantics are right and a single soul can share bodies? Maybe fate has intervened, and if it weren’t for the manipulations of Wright, Engarde wouldn’t be here—and neither would I?”

He then looks at me, mouth open, horrified. His hand is red, the scarring a sickly burnt-skin hue. He’s glowing, but it isn’t with pride or happiness or any of the other things people are supposed to glow with. It’s rage and fear and self-loathing. I want to steeple my fingers and make a bad-guy comment, snide and cool as he’s so good at doing— _So the hunter gets caught in his own diabolical trap, Mr. Gavin? Hmmmm?_ But I can’t.

I just nod.

“And for the first time in my life, I realise that I have no control over this,” he says. His voice is quiet and horrified. He reminds me of someone who has just seen something so horrific that every time they close their eyes they fear seeing it again. For most people, the realisation they love another is …not like this. Perhaps Gavin realises how different he is to the rest of the human population, and that at least partially accounts for his ill-ease.   
  
I can feel myself frowning. Flashes run through my mind, of the lack of control I felt when Liz left; I wasn’t angry or vengeful, I didn’t—couldn’t —blame her— I just blamed myself. She deserved to be allowed to find her own happiness after my years of emotional neglect and indifference and uninvolvement. And I felt a wretch for it because I had a chance to find happiness with her—we  _had_  that happiness—and I ruined it. With _this_ job.

I suck my breath in slightly.  _We’re not here to talk about me._ “And… what does that feeling do to you, Mr. Gavin?”

He raises an eyebrow. “What do you think?” he asks. He’s a closed door again, he’s not going to answer any questions I asked him. He’s already revealed more today than he has in a long time.

“I think it is only human to be scared of what is unknown,” I tell him gently. “Because when you haven’t experienced something, you don’t know you’ll be safe. You don’t know if your usual tried-and-tested method of operation is going to work effectively. The unfamiliar is a common fear, and it’s a perfectly understandable one.”

_And it’s easier to understand that, compared to why you’d derive pleasure from injuring someone or assaulting your younger brother and then taunting him about it years later—_

He nods hurriedly through what I’m saying, and then looks at me, shellshocked. “I mean no disrespect,” he says, “But—may I please return to the unit now?”

 

I radio for staff assistance and when Hamm appears, Gavin smiles at me serenely, a silent  _thankyou_.

Yes, I have just met with a monster. And perhaps, for the first time, I have truly come to understand what that actually means.

But it’s also the first time I’ve heard him admit to something so devastatingly human.  
  
  
And despite my narcissism, I never managed to find out what he and Trucy Wright had said about me.

 

   
  
“Interesting.” Parke’s voice suggests that it’s  _not_  interesting, that it’s another thing to watch out for.

“I want him on obs,” I tell him. “Who knows what’s going through that brain of his. He’s realised he’s completely helpless.”

“He should have realised that a long time ago,” Parke says gruffly. “Most of them realise that when they first  _get here_.”

“Most of them don’t curry favours from staff and get the star treatment in Solitary for as long as he did,” I agree. “That hardly helped with his transition into a normal prison life.”

Parke frowns at me. “I had nothing to do with that.”

“I’m not saying you did. But I am suggesting that we are looking at a very vulnerable Kristoph Gavin now.”

Parke sighs. He’s unimpressed. I’ve caught him on his way out of the building for a change of scenery and a cigarette break, and I’ve interrupted both by talking shop.

“Suppose,” he says as we walk through the airlock and towards the locker bay, “This was all one great big setup from him, designed to remove Tobaye from the equation once he realised Tobaye had a mean right hook on him?” A raised eyebrow from him. “That kid ain’t punching anyone out any more than he’s playing piano again.”

Amongst the dark sarcasm, there’s also devastation in his voice.

“Is it really that bad?” He unlocks his locker and frowns as he removes his packet of cigarettes.

“Doctor’s told me he’s lucky he didn’t lose a couple of fingers, actually. There’s no way he’s going back to gen pop for  _months_. And he’s going to need physio and rehab therapy for a long time after he gets back, too.”

“Shit.”

I watch as Parke grabs his smokes and his lighter and stands up, snapping the locker door shut, pocketing his key. “So honestly, Doc, put Gavin on obs all you like, but don’t blame me for not being as worried about his mental health as I am about other people’s.”

I grab my own cigarettes and decide not to push matters.

 

“Look,” he says once he’s lit up and sucked down that first inhalation of smoke, “I’m not saying I don’t care—I—just—“

He’s offered me the cigarettes and I’ve taken one, my realisation that I ran out this morning and thusly had none in my locker occurring to me only moments ago. I’m not sure if I’m more grateful for the cigarette or the fact that Parke’s still talking to me. In all these years, he’s never stepped away when I’ve had advice: he’s disagreed, certainly, but he’s never just walked away without considering my observations.

Do I hate Gavin for having that effect on _him_ , too? Parke has always tried to be fair and just to all of them, to be reasonable and to look after them, as much as he may find them abhorrent. Now he’s weighing up one set of needs against another’s. This is not Parke.

Do I dignify him with a response? I probably owe him that much. Instead, I sort of crane my body forwards, waiting for him. “Mmm?”

He gives me a dark look and shrinks back slightly. “I suppose you’re right,” he says, exhaling, “It’s not just  _this_ , either, this intel regarding Engarde. He had a fairly awful visit, as well.”

“Oh?”

“Let’s just say that if Trucy Wright had shown her face round here years ago, perhaps Gavin wouldn’t have caused half the shit he’s caused.” Parke sucks in on his smoke again, looks thoughtful. “Wouldn’t have been much help to anyone he’s screwed over in here,” he continues. “Or in terms of stuff that he’s already  _done_ —like the attempt to kill that ex of his and his new boyfriend, I guess—but that girl was impressive in there. I’ve never seen anyone rip into him like she did. And all he could do was sit there, taking it, horrified.”

“Really?”

“He didn’t mention it to you?”

Now I’m the one sucking down on the cigarette, heavy and thoughtful. “No. He… briefly mentioned her and then we got talking about Engarde.”

“What about Engarde?”

I sigh. “What I was touching upon before,” I tell him. “The whole issue with his sense of heightened vulnerability at the awareness that he’s lost Matt Engarde.”

“You mean he misses one of them?”

I raise an eyebrow, not saying anything.

“Trucy, during her visit, pulled out some items from this—it was this pair of panties, I guess—but the thing was incredible,” Parke tells me. “Fuck knows how we’re going to police this one in the future; we can’t just tell visitors they’ve got to drop trou to see their loved ones, but the amount of contraband she could have brough in there—“

“ _Panties_?” I remember Gavin mentioning them but it was hardly a feature point of the conversation.

“That’s what they looked like. Girls’ panties.” He looks a bit thoughtful. “I remember during Stickler’s intake interview, the guy was talking about his offending, and he said it was unfair that amongst his priors there was petty theft and documented paraphilia—“

“So the magic panties  _are_ _real_?”

“Yes. And I sat there wondering how the hell she managed to—well, pull that much stuff out of them: there were a heap of letters from Herr Psychopath, which apparently never made it to their intended recipients—Trucy was watching the mail like a  _hawk_ —and she’s got his number, Doc, she’s been following what he was saying to them and—“

“What  _was_  he saying to them?”

Parke sighs. “Looks like she dismantled a bomb without realising it: there were vague manipulative letters directed to her brother and to her father, there were references to some stuff I’m probably pleased I don’t know about: some family movies involving Wright which could have been sex tapes from the way she raged about them—I dunno. But in all seriousness, I came close to asking for her details and advising her to apply for a job  _here_ ,” he says. “She was  _terrifying_. You’d think she has this weird ability to just _see through_ people—” It’s rare for Parke to sound this impressed, even in spite of his usual ability to give kudos where deserved. “And the moment Gavin said something about mail fraud, she just ripped into him _again_. She just kept  _hitting him_. Verbally. And when he’d look at her like she was talking shit, she’d pull something out of that  _thing_ , those panties.” He raises an eyebrow. “Musta learned a few things from her old man: it was impressive. I’ve never seen  _anyone_  hand Gavin’s ass to him like this girl did.”

Of course, this is none of my business, and I’m in a state of—is it envy?—or is it shock? I’m unsure. “How did he react?”

“He looked like someone had just sprouted a second head in front of him. Bewildered. Horrified. Like there was absolutely  _nothing_  he could have responded with. And when he was about to—out comes more damning evidence and more accusations.”

That at least partially explains Gavin’s strange unhingedness when he was seeing me. Did Trucy Wright crack him open in some fashion? Was he vulnerable prior to seeing me not because of Engarde and the Tobaye incident but because of the meeting? I try to think back on it, the surreal enormity of his confession overriding the earlier discussion. I’m irritated that I didn’t take more thorough notes.

“So—what were  _you_  implying he was in need of observation for?” Parke sucks in on his cigarette, blowing a stream of smoke into the air above him. It’s the first time I can recall him look energised and pleased with himself whilst smoking; there’s a particular beam on his face, like he’s just achieved something.

Of course, if he’s thinking about Gavin, he hasn’t. The victory, that post-coital contentedness, that’s all in Parke’s head. If there was a battle going on between them, Gavin hasn’t realised it let alone started waving the white flag. It’s a hollow victory for Parke.

But maybe it’s not about  _Gavin_. Maybe it’s about the principle of the thing, about someone finally getting at the person who destroyed Tobaye. I mentally shrug, letting him enjoy his moment. It’s not a common thing to see Parke smiling like this.

I look down at my own cigarette and it’s long, limp ash curling over and drooping towards the ground. Shaking it off, I look back at Parke. “Perhaps it was the visit which did it for him—I’m not sure—but—“

Parke looks unconvinced.

“I think I made some sort of progress with him today, or—rather—he made progress with  _me_.” I don’t bother telling Parke that a misplaced smile somehow he seems to have given him the idea that we’re kindred spirits sharing the same disturbing proclivities—that hardly seems the  _point_ —though I’m waiting to see Parke’s reaction.

Parke drops his cigarette and grinds it into the ground with his foot before reaching for the packet to light up another. “Oh?” he asks. He sounds unconvinced.

“I haven’t seen this sort of  _shift_  in his attitude.” I’m watching his face carefully, as he lights and inhales on the cigarette between his lips. “It’s the first time he’s appeared genuinely remorseful about—“

“Don’t tell me it’s about Tobaye?” Parke’s suspicious. “I don’t buy that shit for a  _second_. I don’t think he controlled anything there; there were never any Valentines between Tobaye or the other two—but Gavin was irrelevant to the whole thing.” He sniffs, and a ribbon of dusty grey smoke rises above his head—“Of course, he would probably  _love_  to make it look like he was pulling strings there and—“

“It’s not about Tobaye,” I tell him. I can see that he’s getting irritated. Is he jealous that something seems to be outshone  _his_ Gavin-related incident? I blink. That seems so… childish… from Parke. Has Gavin _seriously_ brought out the worst in  _him_ , ithout either of them even noticing it? Or  _does_  Gavin notice, and find it amusing—is Parke another one of his puppets, dancing on strings to his movements?—

“He admitted to genuine remorse about losing Engarde.”

Parke’s expression turns to one of contempt. “Oh,  _fuck_ ,” he snaps. “Not that drama again.” He flicks ask off the end of his cigarette angrily. “Didn’t he have  _genuine remorse_ about having to try and murder Phoenix Wright and that boyfriend of his, and didn’t he have  _genuine remorse_  about fucking over his assistant—and what happened in the library with the paper—and--?”

“This was different.”

Parke blinks, incredulous. There’s a horrified silence from him and he drops his cigarette unintentionally. “Don’t tell me he’s  _convinced_ you?” he asks. “You’ve said it before; the man’s a sociopath—he doesn’t—“

“I never  _said_  he was a sociopath. I said that he had some traits consistent with Antisocial Personality Disorder.”

Parke raises an eyebrow at me. “Isn’t that the same godamned thing?”

“Not quite.”

I lean back against the wall. “Every now and then something like this happens and—well—I’m worried that he might not be coping too well. Surely the blow to his ego from Trucy Wright—and then  _this_ —“

“You still haven’t convinced me of the significance of the  _this_ ,” Parke says. “He’s probably bluffing.”

“He doesn’t bluff. He’s a lousy poker player.”

Parke snorts, suddenly realising the smoke drifting along the bitumen and the cigarette which has rolled away from him a short difference, as though it were attempting escape. He crushes it out solidly, still looking at me. “Very  _funny_.”

“At any rate—“ I clear my throat—“I’d like to see him placed on observations. I’m concerned he may not cope too well when it’s just him in the darkness by himself tonight.”

Still looking unconvinced, but speaking to me in the kind of voice that suggests he’ll at least humour my request, he nods. “So—you want me to document the reason for observation recommendation as--?”

I think about it for a moment. It’s pure gut instinct driving me. It’s fear of the unknown, of the knowledge that somehow, Gavin’s been pushed to a place he’s not used to being in, and that with that comes the sense that he might resort to chaotic—and possibly dangerous behaviour.

“It’s not like there’s anyone in the cell with him,” Parke says. “You aren’t suggesting he’s going to top himself, are you?” The way he mentions it so casually makes me flinch. Slightly. One does not talk about Gavin doing something like that so  _casually_ , though I can hear the implication in Parke’s voice: _maybe it would make things a lot easier if he weren’t our responsibility_.

This is probably the first time I’ve been supremely unimpressed with Parke’s attitude. I want to shake him, to tell him he’s being unprofessional and unfair. I want to ask him if he wants to go through the same guilt and horror as he did when Redd White was found dead in his cell. I want to ask him—coolly, snidely—if he  _needs_  all the paperwork and another investigation like the one that came with what happened to Tom Moreau.

I don’t say anything. Perhaps my eyes widen a bit. Parke looks almost frightened for a split second, and the look makes me strangely curious. Parke isn’t usually like this, petty and sniping and questioning like he’s being right now. And it’s not fair for me to _not_ expect him to have his moments. He’s only human. He’s allowed to be human.

“I think you’re over reacting,” he says finally.

“I would rather over-react than  _not_  react.”  _There._

There’s a prolonged silence from us, then, the conversation dies like the smoke from an extinguished cigarette.

 

When we walk back through the airlock, nothing seems to have changed between Parke and I. Nothing physical, anyway. But I have this sense that somehow, things aren’t going to be the same in future, that maybe I won’t have to worry about Parke asking me for advice and maybe I won’t be able to ask favours of him as I used to.

I’m not sure how I feel about that.

 


	37. Paradise of Sorts

I probably should feel grateful.

I stretch behind the wheel; I’m stuck in traffic again, but there’s a comfort to the routine. I listen to Marty Mac’s Breakfast Crew as Marty and his cohosts make asinine, cocaine-fuelled conversation about the miniature of their B-grade lives. I wonder if any of them are in therapy with the city’s favourite must-see psychologist, and I wonder what Lauryn would tell me about Marty and Mel if she could.

The weather is humid and overcast, even this early in the morning, and it only adds to the clamminess. I forget when it was that I last slept normally, and I should probably be more concerned about that. Perhaps I should be asking Dr. Smeer to keep his mouth shut and to write me a script for some sleeping pills, but I still can’t trust him with a request like that—sleeping pills are suggestive of a _problem_ , of my need to seek solace in chemicals. I should be able to go home and go to sleep normally.

My last proper memory of sleep was split in two by a ghastly vision of Gavin; thinking of the nightmare, even briefly, makes me seize and feel _ill_. I won’t allow myself to dwell on it.

For the first time in this role, I start wondering if I’m possibly suffering some sort of after-effects in relation to what I _do._ Maybe it’s not just about that; maybe a hefty component of _that_ is that this place has become _all_ that I do, and somewhere amongst all the overtime and the consulting Parke and writing reports, I still don’t have enough in the way of holiday or sick pay to play with.

And even if I did, where would I go? My last two vacations taught me one important, and horrifying lesson: there is no running away from the place, from the clients, from the politics. I could probably have my license to practise revoked and people would _still_ be asking for counsel or for my expert opinion on the crims they’re seeing on Court TV.

I hum along with the golden oldie Marty Mac is playing in honour of his grandmother’s birthday: with bitter amusement, the song happens to be a classic I remember being before my mother’s time— _Hotel California_. Even when I was a child listening to the golden oldies in my mother’s car as we’d drive to the grocery store for the weekly shop, and that song would come on the radio like it had been scheduled especially to sear into my brain, something about it had horrified and haunted me. There was no leaving.

I can feel myself frowning at the idea. That’s what working here is like.

Except, I remind myself, I’m not at work at the moment, I’m in my way in there, and this is the only time I get to myself when I’m awake enough to enjoy it, and I should. I think of all those self-help books of the nineties which advised readers to take pleasure in the simple things in life.

Like family.

Like time with friends.

Like sleep.

Like having a job that makes you feel like you’re useful—

 

It’s too early in the morning for me to be this irritated, I think to myself. I have no right to be; things are easing up a bit; Parke and I are getting what is probably some healthy distance, Dr. Smeer is no longer the smug, polished threat to my livelihood, and my client base is delightfully—in that learn-to-love-it way—predictable. The unit is calm in a way that feels tired and genuine and for a rare occasion, non-suspicious, quiet and orderly and awaiting a new spanner to be thrown in for some heckles to be raised and plans to move underway. At the moment, it’s a lush oasis of calm paradise. Things are looking up, and if they keep on going on like this, I can start looking at sorting out my life and aiming for equilibrium. I shouldn’t be angry in the slightest.

Stuck in freeway gridlock, sleep-deprived and longing for caffeine, I start thinking about the symbolism of my work: I allowed it to take over my life. It grew into it like a cancer, eating up everything, crippling the vitals—my marriage, my identity, my friendships, my interests—and then cannibalised the framework that was left over afterwards. But I let it. I almost welcomed it when I realised that I had lost everything else and that the notion of grieving because of my own stupidity and selfish blindsightedness was so entirely pathetic.

My job became my distraction from my own pitiful existence. And then it became my source of self-worth. And then my identity.

 

It’s a strangely sobering realisation to have at not even eight in the morning, before that first workplace coffee and before I’ve done any _real_ work.

 

 

 If Parke is proud of anything he’s done this year, it’s getting the pool up and running.

The pool is, I’ll admit, quite magnificent; compared to the drudgery of the rest of the prison, it looks far too nice, too new, too colourful to be in here, from the piercing aqua tiling to the gentle lapping water within. In the room that it’s in, which is little more than an empty, concrete garage, it looks like it’s just been placed there randomly, as though it might not be real: a cruelly tempting mirage in the middle of hell.

But it’s real: it’s very real, I can’t help but notice as the smell of chlorine enters my nose and the steam—heat and water and excitement tinges my skin, and the echoing conversation and semi-playful splashes fill the area. It was Parke’s—and Gant’s—dream, and it’s real. 

 

I’m here because I’ve come looking for one of my clients. Wellington, yet again deciding he’s had enough of Smeer, is apparently at the pool for the physical activity programme, and he’s either forgotten or is ignoring the fact that he should be in my office. I need to have a quick chat with him, and I want to see him face-to-face. Parke suggested I just schedule him in, but I still don’t trust Wellington and that hasn’t abated. I want to catch him off-guard and watch his face as I ask what’s going on for him. I want to find out if he purposely forgot about the appointment, and if so, why.

Of course, I could see him at another time, but I’ll admit it: I’m curious. I haven’t seen it yet, having missed the opening ceremony thanks to needing to get end-of-month reports sent to the parole board. I’ve only ever heard about its construction and the stress and budgetry drama it’s caused.

And anyway, the brief opening ceremony, attended by management and some of the head honchos at head office? My avoidance had had a benefit: my pride still stung from my last run-in with deNong, and there were fleeting moments when I wondered if I should have accepted his offer. So the pool has remained not quite real in my mind—until now when I could view it safely and without the suggestion of deNong smugly saying hello and asking how things have been lately.

 

The pathway leading down to the pool area runs down an old corridor which used to lead down to where the death chambers were. No longer used, this area was converted into a larger vistors’ room for awhile, a snack vending machine standing eerily close to where a speaker box used to be, broadcasting someone’s transition from alive to dead, a time stated, making it official. The speaker and the machine have gone now, a darkened rectangle on the wall indicating where you could once buy Swiss rolls and fruit juice. Obviously the budget didn’t stretch to getting the walls painted.

To divert from the path, heading outdoors, one crosses through what used to be an old loading bay which now houses the in-ground pool. The ground level location, the fact that it was fully enclosed, and the concrete flooring made it an ideal location for the placement of an in-ground pool.   
  
Beyond this is a roller door because the area is also a shared exit for buses reuniting prisoners with the outside world and utilised by the morgue—albeit less frequently now than when the death penalty was carried out here— accessed by doors further along. It’s here where you notice that everything reeks of poor planning and shoddy design; one of those concepts seeming a perfectly logical idea _at the time_ , and fraught with problems once completed. It’s the type of thing you grow used to, here, though. Prisons operate on a budget. When you’re working under a budget, you cut corners.

And it wasn’t as though there was anywhere else to place a swimming pool.

 

At a glance, you can tell Damon Gant, whose pool-tile turquoise eyes and disturbing expressions manage to hold everything and everyone in place—is enamoured with the pool. Despite being in his later years, Gant has never lost his love of water, and with his imposing and statuesque build, you know that anyone who is thinking of causing a breach in security… won’t. It’s the same sort of people power—person power, though, in this case—which kept everything running smoothly at the Smile Time Variety Show: no one wanted to see the loss of a privilege which was enjoyed by—amongst everyone—more powerful members of the prison populace.

When the pool was shut down years ago, Gant continued his exercise, and campaigned for the return of the swimming program. As a result, he’s stayed in shape, and he still manages to look younger than his birth certificate would suggest. The existence of the pool seems to have taken more years off his face and given him a glow probably nothing else can. Still holding an intimidating presence, no one’s _game_ to attempt anything while he’s there: if someone tries anything silly, the pool will be off-limits for everyone. And if that happens, Damon Gant will make sure there is hell to pay.

 

When I arrive at the pool that morning, he’s amongst them, swimming laps in a straight line as others keep to themselves at the other end of the water. Wellington is chest-deep, his hair drenched, the bleached streak in his fringe a rusty line running along the side of his face, laughing with a couple of other twenty-somethings. Further down the end, Portsman, curiously, is chatting with Gold and Rolla and a few other inmates who may just be on the outer rim of Gant’s circle of friends. There is steam in the air and the smell of wet concrete and chlorine filling my lungs, but there is also more warmth and genuine, innocent pleasure than I’ve seen anywhere else in the prison in my years here

.

I can understand why Wellington would have “forgotten” his appointment with me when this was the alternative. I think Parke understands, too: he’s supervising, though he seems aware as anyone else that no one is going to cause havoc down here. Not with Gant holding court and invisible threats.  

 

I edge away, unseen, through the small storage room to the side, where emergency supplies, pool salts and cleaning chemicals are kept, making sure no one sees me. I’m prepared to allow Wellington the joy of this session with no interruption. Maybe he needs this more than he needs to see me. Maybe the fact that he’s occupied and is enjoying himself has distracted him from whatever he wanted to talk to me about. It would be less disruptive to chat to him in the middle of his work duty rather than to interrupt him now.

The pool may have been a nuisance, a financial drain and perfectly impractical, but seeing the unadulterated happiness it’s granting people makes me feel that it’s been worth every cent.

 

 

    

Of course, the one thing I’m really not looking forward to doing is seeing Machi Tobaye. I think about Parke’s request when I return to my office, cup of coffee and his file in hand, collected from the staffroom and the admin office respectively.

It’s rare for me to read their files in entirety, and it’s something I resort to only when dealing with a particularly difficult—or incomplete—case. Flipping through some psych profiles and a brief description, and asking some stff a few questions is usually all the information I need. But Tobaye and his extra-special circumstances prove a new challenge. I want to know what to expect when I see him.

 

It’s looking at the photographs—possible evidence against Engarde and Crescend if Tobaye decides to have them charged with assault—that makes me realise that I’m probably not ever going to be prepared for the reality of what he’s been through. I can understand Parke’s sickened reaction and apparent sympathy for Tobaye after looking at the pictures; in the fleeting moments I saw of the incident, I didn’t see the true horror close up, the way his hands look _broken_ and bruised beyond recognition. As far as assaults go, this one has to be one of the worst I’ve seen. All of this only becomes worse to consider when I take into account the fact that Tobaye’s hands weren’t just appendages but his keys to a particular kind of freedom which no one could take from him.

Until they did.

 

I find myself wondering what I would do in his situation, and then wondering, perhaps more uncomfortably, what I would be devastated to lose—of course, this brings me back to the thought that the only really tangible thing in my existence, the only thing I have and therefore have to lose—is _this_. I frown.

I cannot imagine what Tobaye is feeling. I can take a guess, though, that it is hardly a sense of forgiveness and acceptance of his circumstances and the men behind them.

 

Parke and I arrive at the hospital in the prison-issued car in silence. There’s a sense of dread amongst us and the conversation we’ve had was limited to two brief lines about Wellington’s cancellation and the pool, with the vague notation from me that I saw he was enjoying himself. Parke just nods. Both of us are distant and apprehensive and lost in our own thoughts for the time being, and the short ride from the prison to the hospital doesn’t allow for the ice to completely melt between us and conversation to properly start up again. I can’t help but wonder how lasting this will be; I’m not used to Parke and I having this sort of relationship. Just another thing to add to the ghost town that the rest of my life seems to be turning into.

 

Tobaye is sitting on the bed when we walk through to his room; it’s a private room, thankfully, and a staff member, presumably new or from another unit is sitting at the door reading the paper, even though it’s unlikely that Tobaye is going to get up and move anywhere anyway. He nods to Parke and I as we step into the room.

“Stunne,” Parke introduces me, almost curtly. The man, probably in his late twenties and already looking like he’s been in the job too long, gives him a nod, and extends a hand towards me. “Frank Stunne,” he says. “I think I’ve seen you around, Doc—”

He smiles easily and then glances towards Tobaye, who is lying on the bed behind him, a hospital curtain draped around for some level of privacy. “They sent him in for some surgery,” Stunne tells us. “He’s been doped to the eyeballs on pain meds for most of the time I’ve been here, every now and then he’s rambled incoherently in Borg in his sleep, but beyond that, there’s not been much change. You just see people going in and out every now and then; no one really tells me about his issues.” He shrugs, his enormous shoulders rising and falling like boulders.

Parke nods. I step up onto the balls of my feet to try and see what Tobaye is doing. All I can see is him lying in bed through a slant of uncurtained area, eyes up at the dead TV attached to the ceiling. I step past Parke and Dunne and decide to say hello.

 

He smiles faintly with some sort of recognition when I see him, and I’m lost for words. Yes, it’s him—the tell-tale homemade blur of tattoos on his arms stand out against the white hospital sheets, and his ratty blonde hair looks no different, but the rest of him doesn’t look like the Tobaye I remember. He’s puffy and pale and _dead_ looking, and his vacant pale blue eyes suggest as much. I can only hope it’s the pain killers.

“Hi, Machi,” I offer quietly. The eyes flicker to me for a moment, and I feel embarrassingly lost for words. “How are you doing?”   
  
Under the brutal glare of the hospital lighting, he doesn’t say anything, though I get a slight variation in his facial movements which suggests, quite obviously, _How do you_ think _I’m doing?_ I glance down at his hands, heavily bandaged, one with an ominous-looking tube running out from it.

“I get surgery,” he says, his voice still dull and groggy from the drugs. “Lamiroir, she help me out with cost. I pay nothing. I get good doctor.”

Parke has appeared at my side and he gives me a look of “I’ll explain this later,” and I get the impression that we’re going to be back to our usual relationship soon.

“She forget TV,” Machi says. A slight smile almost graces his mouth for a second, but then his face hardens. “I don’t want TV.” And then there’s a glaze which seems to run through his eyes and still everything down. There’s an unsaid sentiment there. He might not want the TV, but—

I haven’t asked how he’s _really_ feeling, but I’m not stupid and neither is he. It’s clearly obvious, and I consider his frustration with the English language and the anger I’ve heard about it causing him in the past.

Still, I decide I need to ask him something.

“What have the doctors said about your accident?” _Accident?_ The word seems like a cruel joke. What happened to Tobaye was no more accidental than Behr’s business deals were.

Screwing his face up, he blinks again, not quite looking at me. “Ph-fizzo-therapy,” he says, aware of his mispronunciation and visibly frustrated by it. “Work with doctor. Rebuild my—“ He has a word for it, but perhaps between his frustration and the painkillers he can’t grasp it in either English or Borginian. “They fix hands,” he says. “Doctor from good hospital does operation here. Like I say. Lamirior pay for it.”

He says nothing about the chances of recovery, about the injury itself or about the men involved. Though he looks at Parke, unimpressed though deciding to raise a concern.

“Parke wants me in pussy unit,” he says.   
  
Parke clears his throat and raises an eyebrow. “We did discuss where you will return to when you come back to the unit—but that’s a long, _long_ time away—” he offers.

Machi doesn’t look calmed by this. “Not going,” he says simply. “No piano on pussy unit.”

But his particular vehemence suggests that this isn’t just about a piano or lack thereof. I frown, but don’t say anything.

Parke clears his throat. “We’ll talk about it a bit more when we return to the unit, Machi,” he says. Clearly he’s developed some affection for the kid. Using his first name, showing some level of sympathy and almost affection…? Parke doesn’t do this often: at least, I haven’t seen it happen before. Usually Parke’s fair and reasonable—human enough to become annoyed with long-term trouble-makers and those who try to slip past him—but dispassionate and _fair_ towards everyone. No special treatment. Empathy without affection.

Machi Tobaye either doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care. Then I start wondering if this isn’t Parke’s emotional rope being tugged on, but his guilt at what happened to Machi under his management. Like all of us, he should have known. He _trusted_ Crescend. He shouldn’t have.

“We will.” Machi’s drugged to the eyeballs, but the small part of him that still has consciousness and focus turns to Parke in that instant, cold and deliberate and alarmingly sober. “We make deal, Parke.”

Parke frowns again, and glances over at where Stunne is sitting by the door. He’s reading, still, uninterested in our discussion.

“Have you thought about what your lawyer talked about with you?” His voice is hopeful, that of someone who just needs an answer in order to plan their next move. The “please let me leave limbo” voice.

“That is between me and Yoostis,” he says. “Not me and you.” And there’s a long, angry silence where once again, I feel like a third wheel. I smile slightly, hoping my eyes convey that I’m happy to listen, that I’m concerned, that I will not judge. He doesn’t notice.

“Is there anything you’d like to talk to me or the doctor about?” Parke asks him gently, though I wonder if he’s lost interest in us now; the gate is open, the horse has bolted, thanks to Parke needing to know if he’s going to pursue legal action against his attackers which will inevitably lead to the prison being scrutinised. Tobaye’s eyes flash and he’s looking up at something in the corner of the room. Or thereabouts, I think, realising that I could be incorrect in my assumption: his pain medication seems to have kicked in again.

“No,” he says. His voice is softening, and Parke looks disgruntled for a moment, realising that whenever Machi’s last dose of pain meds was, it’s now coming into effect. “We’ll get going then?” he asks. It’s not really a question.

 

 

 

“Jesus,” he snaps in the car as we’re driving back, “Stunne could have told us they’d _just_ whacked him up with whatever they did before we came in to see him. That was entirely useless.” I can see the way his knuckles tighten over the steering wheel.

“We got a few things from him,” I offer. “We know that he’s likely to be out for revenge on Crescend and Engarde—“

“We still don’t know if he’s going to pursue legal action against them.” Parke swears as a driver appears out of nowhere and cuts us off. His hands are off the wheel in a snap and they’re hitting the horn. He swears again, but the driver is long gone.

“He’s old enough to know about the prison code that you don’t snitch,” he reasons, “—and he’s confident enough to just hit someone—“

“ _Was_ confident enough.” Whatever incarnation of Tobaye we’ll be getting back on the unit, it will not be the same young man who walked in. I remember Engarde’s comment about Gant’s group and feel sickness rising in my stomach.

“What do you think he’s going to do then?” Parke asks me.

I get a strange flashback to Waverley expecting me to have all the answers when he was running the unit, but this is different. Waverley’s need to know was desperate and patriarchal, like I was a loyal servant or a spy or a scientist, collecting information, turning it into data and rolling it into a concise outcome. Parke looks worried, like he is too far out of his depth and confused as hell. NO matter what, I think as I look at him—he’s never going to have that same authoritarian arrogance that Waverley has.

“I think he will try to save face.” I pause, considering it and what I know of Tobaye, building up a mental picture of logical possibilities. “I don’t think he will try to harm himself—he seems to have had ample opportunities in the past yet there’s no history of that sort of thing…”

Parke’s nodding while he’s driving, listening to me. “He’ll be on obs more his protection—and everyone else’s—when he gets back,” he says vaguely.

“Right.” I don’t continue with any chain of thought: I don’t really have much beyond that.

“But seriously, Doc, with what his files have said, I don’t think that’s gonna be for a _while_. Crescend and Engarde will be out of solitary before he’s back.

 _Just to give us something else to worry about._ Of course, I don’t say this.

 

 

 

Harry Dupp, one of the new intakes awaiting assessment, is trembling in my office. Five minutes back on the floor, and there was the typical midweek telephone call, the outside-number ring which sounds like the chime of a less-frequent, but still operational clock—and I knew I had a new one.

 

He’d rushed in when the door was opened, as though he awaited a beating from Field who escorted him. Field rolled his eyes at me, his look, and the look of the inmate saying everything I needed to know without even opening his file: a first timer.  
  
Now he sits in the chair, settling, with the realisation that my office is safe, though nervous at what I might represent. I study him carefully-- he looks about thirty, and as though in a former life he didn’t ever consider that places like this existed. He could have been a used car salesman or the perky-faced manager of a chain store. Even so, there’s a nastiness about him, like he was the kind of kid who pulled wings off flies and suckered in little kids for “friendship” before stealing their lunch money. There’s something pathetic and menacing about him; he’s the type of person who lacked the charisma or power to make it himself, so he latched onto someone smarter, or more powerful; the side kick of someone who mattered. I almost want to feel sorry for this guy because he emanates weakness, and he’s clearly terrified. He doesn’t belong in a unit with lifers.

He blinks behind his designer glasses, his eyes magnified and watery from awhile ago, like he’s been crying in the van on the way here and he ran out of energy before the strip search and being issued with his clothes and property.

“Hello,” he says quietly. His voice shakes. “You probably know who I am—“

I was briefly informed over the phone and told a file would be down in records by the end of the afternoon. Conspiracy to commit murder. Murder in the second degree. That’s all I know, but from his build, I suspect that his victim was either a child or elderly. I try to keep my face still as I consider that.

“I don’t, actually,” I tell him with an apologetic smile. “I get a bit consumed by this place and I haveb;t seen your files yet—” I shift towards him, extending a hand across the desk—normally a big no-no, something I wouldn’t do. He might have murder on his file, but he’s looks like he’s going to start crying again and he clearly lacks the street smarts to attack me from this angle.

He doesn’t even shake my hand, flinching back like it’s a threatening gesture. Parke and the unit are going to have their hands full with the guy. “I’m Doctor—“

“You’re the shrink,” he says nastily, cutting me off. “There is _nothing_ wrong with _me_ , I just got caught up in Connor Welles’ _scam_ and—

Connor Welles. Rings a bell. Suddenly, I remember.

“He’s that… motivational speaker with the CDs on late night tele—“

“Some of our promotions were on late-night television,” he cuts me off. “I was his publicist and manager.”

I nod, letting him explain, certain that if I offer anything, he’ll cut me off anyway. “Seeing as no one really knew…” He snaps, his voice rambling and still terrified and annoyed, as though I already _should_ knowwhat the problem is— “things weren’t doing so great with the sales for awhile… Connor had some…” He gazes around the room like he’s looking for a sanitised, PR-friendly way of explaining it, and then his tearful, bloodshot eyes snap back to me. “Connor had a coke habit you couldn’t ignore, and most of his interstate motivational tours were just an excuse for him to chase tail.” The bitterness in his voice is clear, but a new bubble of thought is forming in my head: _Great: he can’t and won’t keep his mouth shut_. “Women wanted him like you wouldn’t believe: that was another problem, too: apparently some bitch was saying he had a kid to her and—and—“

He cuts himself off. “Anyway, Connor’s old lady: she’s rich and lives out in one of those mansions out near the beach and—” I’m aware of the way his voice is speeding up and growing more distorted. There’s something he isn’t quiet telling me: I’m getting some sort of polished lie instead—

“I didn’t kill her,” he says. “I ditched the body with him.” Remorseless, and terrified. I frown. “Anyway, the best bit is that Connor has disappeared. So I admit to ditching the body, hoping I’ll get a lighter sentence, and instead the cops are trying to put the murder on me—I didn’t kill her.” His voice is rising. I think he’s telling the truth about that much. “ _Connor_ killed her, and now he’s disappeared somewhere and I gave the cops what I knew and my lawyer had me plea bargain and I didn’t get done for first-degree murder but—“

I reach into the desk drawer next to me, and retrieve a standard form, one I haven’t seen in awhile since Smeer took over some of the more routine tasks in regards to our client base. Like intake. I’m already deciding to delegate Harry Dupp to him, unfair as it may be, but Smeer _will_ appreciate a trainwreck connected to a big name, I think nastily—

“We’re just here for an assessment today, Mr. Dupp,” I offer. “No one’s saying anything’s wrong with you—” _But I have my guesses_ , I don’t add—“What we need to do is go through some tests, and the first is—“

I’m about to hand the papers, already attached to a rubber-plasticised industrial strength clipboard—to him—when an alarm starts wailing and my radio crackles. It’s serious, but I don’t recognise the tinny, almost musical sound; it’s not a duress, it’s not a standard fire alarm—I don’t know what it is. I’m almost as confused as Dupp is. 

“What the hell is that?” he asks, eyes widened and terrified, darting around the room like he’s waiting for the shudder of an earthquake beneath him.

There’s a knock on the door. It’s Knox Field, ready to collect him early. “Unit’s on lockdown.” He glances at Dupp and then back at me. “We’ll have to do the assessment at another time; they need to do a headcount and get things sorted—

I want to ask what’s happened, but I know better to do so at the moment and in front of a new inmate, especially one who has just revealed that he can’t keep his mouth shut. I realise it will have to wait, and so I nod to Dupp. “Nice to meet you,” I tell him—“I’m just sorry that it ended so abruptly—“

He nods at me, looking completely bewildered. “What room ‘you in?” Field asks him. Either Dupp has forgotten or he’s clueless.

“I dunno,” he says. “The one on the end.”

Already I can feel my insides twisting. _Shit._

“There’s a lot of ends here, buddy.”

“I dunno,” Dupp says again, growing more frustrated as the alarm continues. “I’m sharing with that tall blonde guy with the long hair and the glasses.”

“You’re Gavin’s new roomie,” Field says. There’s a dryness in his voice that I think is imperceptible to Dupp but not to me. _Wonderful_. Dupp just looks at Field blankly, and the two leave my office.

And the alarm continues ringing, as though no one knows how to turn it off.

 

 

“What the fuck _was that_?”

Waverley sounds, for the first time I’ve noticed, bewildered rather than annoyed by something. “That alarm sounded like something from the fucking eighties.”

I don’t want to ask why he supposedly knows so much about prisons from the nineteen eighties, because the answer is probably as simple as “I watched a lot of old cop shows when I was a kid.” And I will be honest: I avoid unnecessary interaction with Waverley from now on, and have no urge to change that. As long as the two of us can respect one another—

“Something from the old part of the building?” Hamm asks. “Wouldn’t surprise me if it was just something they haven’t had fixed properly. I mean, what, the cameras didn’t get done, the solitary isolation wing was fairly crappy, there’s still the problem with the fire alarms and the water and the power shorting out—“

“I thought they got that fixed.”

“’Pparently not.” Hamm nods. “Last weekend we went into lockdown after someone threw some juice at the lights in the kitchen.”

“They haven’t even fixed the _kitchen?_ ” Waverley’s incredulous and he doesn’t say anything else as we walk towards the staff room.

Parke looks flustered when we all get there.

“Turns out, ladies and gentlemen,” he says, “That that is what the alarm sounds like when the door to the death chamber annex is open and the rollerdoor behind the vehicle bay is open.”

I consider that for a moment. Of course no one had considered it/ the death chamber annex is now the pool area, and that door being open is no longer a potential escape on our hands.

“Why was the rollerdoor open?” Denham asks. “Um, isn’t _that_ a potential escape point?”

“Only if there’s a van in there and someone willing to drive it out.”

“I don’t like the idea of vans being accessible to the inmates,” Caster says. “How long will it take for another wing to use the pool area and some punk to have a shiv pointed at a new staff member’s throat and then the kind of security breach that…”

“Not our unit, not our problem,” Waverley says. “We’ve got Gant at the moment. I agree; I don’t want those fucks getting access to anything they can potentially cause chaos with, but Gant gets down to that pool every chance he can and he keeps ‘em in line.”

“Gant won’t be with us forever,” Caster snaps. “And if something does happen which the media get hold of, _all_ of us are going to go down for it.”

Parke clears his throat. “I’m going to meet with my managers about getting policy drafted up after the alarms and the rollerdoor itself in the pool area. Thankfully this was a false alarm—and since no one did anything wrong, we can’t keep them in lockdown—“

“Why did it go off, anyway?” I ask.

“The rollerdoor is sensitive to anything seen as an attack on it,” Parke explains. “Which is reasonable justification for getting a new one. Right now we’re talking about having activity-approved inmates who are serving life sentences using a swimming pool down there, not men waiting to get killed who might do anything in a last resort move to get out.”

“What _happened_?”

“Someone hit it with a beach ball,” Parke says. “Which is hardly a security offence—I’ve been assured it was an accident—“

“So there are no cameras down there?” Waverley asks. “Who the fuck designed _that_?” It’s a subtle stab at Parke again for not having considered it in the pool building process, but Parke deflects it beautifully.

“The cameras there are as old as the alarms,” he says. “And the condensation from the pool water hasn’t agreed with them so well.” His eyes are on Waverley as he speaks. If Lily were on shift today, she’d be smiling.

“Which is why I’m meeting with management in regards to getting this fixed this afternoon,” he continues. “ _Before_ it becomes a serious security issue.”

 

 

It’s Parke’s lucky day it seems. I get an excited phone call from him about forty-five minutes later, explaining that Tobaye is not pressing charges. It seems that his lawyer has talked to some of the higher-ups in prison management, and it has been agreed that Tobaye be allowed certain privileges whilst in hospital—and his own private physiotherapist—police check withstanding, of course—when he returns to the unit in return for the remainder of his sentence—and he will not be pursuing action against the prison managers or Engarde and Crescend.

“Which is good in a way,” Parke says, “Because it’s not our fault that Crescend and Engarde decided to be arseholes, but now we have to deal with _them_.”

“They can’t remain in solitary?” I ask.

“Not since recent reforms which came in after they lost conjugals and the prison became smoke-free… we now have to let them out once we explicitly know that they’re not having assault charges laid against them if they’re in solitary for an assault on someone else here.” He sighs. “And I can’t pretend I don’t know, either; DeNong got on the phone to me about it after the company’s lawyer did. There’s a trail of communication which I have to adhere to.”

I sigh.

“And I can’t keep Engarde there over the destruction of the camera, either,” he says. “The last lot of fucking reforms were brutal, and because Gavin had him reading the papers and the legal journals he was subscribed to, he knows what’s what. At most I can put him in isolation for awhile if he poses an immediate risk to someone.” Another sigh. “He’ll probably calmly inform me of his rights when I turn up to bring them out.”

“Do we have any plans for reintegration then?” I ask. My mind races to what Gavin told me during his last session. “I see you’ve now put that new guy, Dupp, in Gavin’s cell and—“

“I had no other options,” Parke says dismally. “And according to an email I just got, the police have nabbed his co-offender as he was trying to flee interstate, that hot-shot motivational speaker on the late-night TV ads.”

I raise an eyebrow. It’s funny how we all seem to watch late night TV here.

“So what’s _that_ going to do to the dynamic?” I asked. “What if Engarde—“

He sighs. “I know you’re meant to be finishing up in a couple of hours, but do you think you could keep a space open for _just in case_?”

At first I mishear him and am about to ask who Justin Case is. But then I realise what this really means: Parke waiting for the storm to hit.

 

He’s just not sure where and how at the moment.


	38. Laundry Service

“Why the fuck does Gavin have a new room mate?”

That’s the first thing Engarde says to me as he sits down. He looks terrible, too; his hair could use a cut, there are fresh red scratches all over his face, and his skin looks sunken in and sallow. The scowl and the rage in his eyes doesn’t help at all, either.

“Mr. Engarde,” I tell him, an audible sigh in my voice because I’m sick of saying it—“We’re not here to discuss other—“

“I know, I know,” he snaps. “But— _why_? Parke’s said I can’t share with anyone and neither can Crescend… but there’s some room issue or something and everyone  _else_  gets a room mate and I don’t. Unless I wanna share with that fucking freak Callander, and no fucking way, dude. How come Gavin gets the new guy?”

I consider the fact that Welles is on his way in. Maybe this time next week, Engarde will be complaining about having to share a room with a motivational speaker who is, from my recollection of him on his late-night ads—somewhat irritating. Maybe trying to house two volatile egos who are used to attention in one cell will be the worst idea Parke’s had. Or maybe he’s got something else planned which I have no idea about yet.

I decide to try handling things from another angle. “This isn’t really about the room mate, is it, Mr. Engarde?” Maybe I can encourage him to start talking—rather than griping—about his actual problems. Maybe.

Probably not.

He folds his arms and scowls, not quite looking at me. “Sometimes,” he snaps, “it’s just annoying when they say things work one way and then they  _change that_  on you.”

“But this isn’t about you.”

“It’s about  _standards_ ,” he hisses. “It’s about— _consistency_. Weren’t  _you_  the one who said in some report or another that I  _thrived_ when things were consistent?” There’s a sneer in his voice, and it irritates me even though it’s unfair to be irritated by it: it’s not personal. I sigh. Yes, I did write that on a report somewhere. I’m touched that he remembered, though curious as to how he happened upon it. (I’m distractedly considering it: was it submitted as evidence about his character at the trial?)

He couldn’t remember nameless, faceless beautiful fans who adored him, but he can remember a few lines from a dry psychiatric report. But perhaps this system is the only true consistency he’s had offered to him since his whirlwind childhood and descent into fame.

And he’s right. There isn’t consistency. There is management, and things are tailored to circumstances. But Engarde isn’t good with understanding the world outside what concerns him. He frowns at me before changing the subject, his face lighting up with the idea od something new to talk about, and in a rare display of what some would construe as concern, his voice becomes concerned. “I know I can’t ask about other inmates,” he says earnestly, “But how  _is_  Machi Tobaye?”

I want to laugh. Anyone who didn’t know about what happened would possibly buy the false concern which masks the obvious-to-me—a need to know when he might return, a way of deflecting his involvement and making it look like it was all Crescend’s doing, information for a tactical move somewhere else—I’m just not sure  _what_.

“I’m not sure.” Appeal to his sense of concern? “He seemed to be in poor shape when I last saw him.”

“Oh.” Engarde’s face barely flickers.

He’s bored now, and he looks away from me, realising he can’t get any more information. In the back of my mind I keep thinking about Gavin’s renewed interest in him and the fact that he believes the whole incident was engineered— and enjoyed—by him. Trying to shut that out of my mind— _I’m talking to_ Engarde _… and we’re not supposed to talk about other inmates… and he thrives on consistency_ —proves fruitless. It’s the same sort of trick as deliberately not thinking of a wall to avoid thinking about the unthinkable.

 _Was that_ you _, Engarde? Did you enjoy it?_

A little montage of Engarde moments plays in my mind: him gleefully disturbing staff with his hideous self-inflicted injuries, some of his angry moments—a whole collection of him flailing and struggling against staff whilst getting restrained, expletives and spit and punches flying. It all seemed like childish poke-the-hornet-nest silliness and reactionary violence rather than the calculated, very deliberate and sinister actions of Kristoph Gavin.

He glances back at me, and theat’s when I realise how deep in thought I am. “Am I boring you, Doc?” There’s a bit of a smile on his face. “Should I go freak someone out so we have something better to talk about next time?” There’s such an innocence in his voice that I find myself shivering. Maybe Engarde’s complete lack of remorse—and empathy—got lost in the noise with the rest of his drama.

He laughs. “Don’t worry, Doc,” he says. “I’m joking. Parke said I’m back in solitary and there’ll be moves to have me segregated under some psych act or something. I guess I have to play nice for awhile.” There’s a Richard Wellington style, movie star smile.

Maybe it doesn’t matter that he was joking because even when the act is rubbed away, the reality is still the same. He might be damaged and vulnerable and self-destructive, but he's still here for a reason and he’s utterly remorseless. He plays the system. People get hurt. He doesn’t care.

I choke back my annoyance that Parke didn’t discuss segregating Engarde with me—before wondering if it was just a blind threat, anyway. “It probably  _is_  in your interests to try and control your behaviour and  _not_ assault other inmates.”

He raises an eyebrow. “I need to talk to Crescend, too.”

 _Oh_?

“I’d like to mediate with him so there are no problems down the track,” he says. So perfectly. So earnestly. With such depth and honesty that a parole board would set him free and find him a job working with a children’s charity.

I stiffen, wondering if I’m allowed to feel guilty for not believing a word of it and wondering what the underlying motivation is.

 

 

Engarde and Crescend never get that mediation.

“Why do you think Engarde wants to mediate with Crescend?” I ask Parke when we’re standing outside, having our two-in-one cigarette-and-fresh-air-break with bonus planning session.

“Simple,” Parke says. “He wants to make it look like he’s the good guy, that there’s no hard feelings while Crescend sits there, stewing, knowing that he doesn’t have a leg to stand on and that retaliating against Engarde is only going to make things worse for him.”

"He still could do it, anyway, though." I voice my concern.

“Crescend’s angry, and revenge isn’t beyond him, but he’s not going to make things worse for himself. He’s not stupid.” Parke sighs, flicking cigarette ash on the ground. “If he does anything, he’s probably going to get someone else to pull the trigger and give them motive.”  
  
I nod. “Maybe we’re worrying without cause,” I suggest. “I mean, he’s hardly the most popular inmate at the moment, and he’s always kept a fair distance from everyone else. I don’t think anyone owes him any favours or he’s got the influence to make others do his bidding.”

Parke nods. “Right,” he says. “After everyone seeing him getting used as Engarde’s bitch, I doubt he’s going to be offering sexual favours for intel or action, either: he was humiliated by all that and has said as much to me that he’d prefer to pretend it never happened… Add to the fact that the guy was a cop, and he’s gonna try keeping a low profile.” He stretches his arms in front of him, fingers linked together, and his knuckles crack before he reaches into his pocket for another cigarette. “I say we get them to mediate to calm down Engarde and hold him to his word that he’ll stay away from Crescend with no hard feelings.”

I nod as he concentrates on lighting the cigarette.   
  
But still, that mediation never happens.

 

What  _does_  happen is that when the two of them are released from solitary, Daryan Crescend is on the unit for about twenty minutes, according to Parke in the aftermath, before heading into the laundry to start his duties there.

There’d been discussion about where to place him after the incident: Crescend had become a  _problem_. Work duties involving the Kitakis are out of the question, as are work duties involving anyone from units which contain inmates who’ve been linked to drugs from a certain period: throughout his career, Crescend had put away plenty of people involved in the drug trade and the higher-ups tended to have long memories, and gang initiates always wanted to prove their commitment and make names for themselves.

The kitchen was out due to the fact that Crescend  _had_  been involved in a violent incident— and kitchen duties were reserved for the lowest-risk inmates. The mail room was full of the Gant group and, anyway, being considered medium-level security made it off-limits. In blotting their copybooks with the assault on Tobaye, Crescend and Engarde had both been reduced to low-security activities for at least a couple of months, according to Parke. And of course they could not work together until the mediation, which Parke still seemed dubious about.

 

Laundry is not a favoured work duty in the prison. It is dull, monotonous and much like in the outside world, considered “female work”—and it is useless, in terms of any kind of strategic value. There is no status in working in the laundry, and no ability to use the position to one’s advantage. In the mail room, smuggling in items is possible. There’s also power in being able to give out—or lose—or steal from—other people’s incoming mail. Mailroom gives one a level of protection, because it makes perfect sense to stay on the good side of the guys who handle your contact from the outside world.

In the kitchen, inmates have the power to provide food which hasn’t been tampered with, and to see  _exactly_  what goes into meal components. Inmates aren't going to piss off the guy handling their three square meals. And even odd jobs—assisting staff, for example—can bring about insider knowledge, or allow for an interest to be indulged in, as Gavin had when the library was operating. Manufacturing as work duty can provide inmates much-needed experience for life on the outside, for the shorter-term ones who realise that finding employment post-release is difficult. Even mopping floors can put someone in the right place at the right time.

But no one wants to do the laundry. Having to handle the clothing and bedding of other people— their bacteria, their smells, their diseases—doesn’t have wide appeal. But it’s a low-risk job, so anyone can do it, and it’s one inmates will gladly trade good behaviour for in order to change postings. Laundry is the purgatory of prison jobs, and the roster is made up of the dangerous, the unplaceable and the at-risk; inmates who don’t fit in anywhere else.

Crescend had found himself on the list, surrounded by other men, whom, in the words of Parke, “Couldn’t be trusted, but were deemed the least dangerous to have with him.”

He lasted twenty minutes.

 

I was in my office when everything happened, for once actually reading and reviewing files for upcoming court appearances—and in the middle of drafting a report for Julien Callendar’s lawyer (who thankfully wants him moved to a specialist forensic psychiatric facility)—the duress alarm sounds. When everything happens, I can’t hear through the noise anything on the radios: even the radio messaging is obscured by the scream of the alarm.

The unit doesn’t get locked down, though, so I believe the incident was contained and return to my report, knowing that if it’s big enough to warrant mention, Parke will tell me about it.

 

In the meantime, though, a name confronts me on the screen which makes me stop. Tobaye. I haven’t seen him or spoken to him properly since the assault, and while I realise his lawyer has worked small miracles for him, I still wish I could do something for the poor kid. Not knowing what, though, and knowing that I have the impending mediation somewhere on the cards today, I just keep it in the back of my mind, and wait.

 

When no one has contacted me about the mediation, and I have time spare from reports, I head to the staff room for my coffee. On the way, I walk past Parke’s office, and that’s where the door opens and he gestures for me to come inside.

“Crescend’s in the hospital,” he tells me. “A couple of entry levels were throwing washing powder at one another, someone gets it in the eye, so Denham tends to that and a few of the others dragged Crescend off to a corner and beat him up pretty bad.” He looks frustrated, though through the frustration there is worry.

My eyes widen. I don’t need to ask about the mediation not happening. The way Parke’s voice shifts when he describes Crescend’s attack gives me all the information that I need.

“Any idea who… or  _why?_ ”

Parke shakes his head. “My guess right now is that word’s travelled about what happened to Tobaye, Crescend’s been pinned with it, and the Borgs or someone wanting their favour has called it in. They’re interviewing people on C and D, but nothing’s come forth. And the guys who beat him up are a mismatched group of unlikeables, too. No gang affiliations, nothing like that really, no friends. They’re your Crescends and Callanders and Gavins from C and D. They wouldn’t have taken it upon themselves to do it—“ He’s thinking out loud.

“Has Engarde been involved with anything? No attempts on him?”

“Engarde has spent most of the morning in his room complaining that he’s not feeling well and reading  _MacBeth_. It’s all part of his theatrics.” Parke makes an unimpressed face. “I don’t think Engarde is smart enough to organise something like that and unless he’s got telepathic abilities, I can’t see  _how_  he’d manage to. Nor can I see why he’d want to—he was hellbent on mediation because he’s scared of Crescend.”

I raise an eyebrow. “He mentioned the mediation to me, but I don’t know about how sincere he was.” But would he have planned a hit on Crescend? In spite of his charges, and in spite of other actions of his—the Wellington and Smeer situation, for example—I’m unconvinced. Even mentioning a mediation would draw attention to him. He’d have more likely organised the hit on Crescend without drawing attention to anything.

“He talked to me about it,” Parke says. “He wasn’t himself: he actually fessed up to things about Crescend that he normally wouldn’t.”

“A ruse?”

“No…” Parke looks confused. “There was fear there.” He pauses. “I can’t always pick a liar, but I can pick fear.” He scratches behind his ear absently. “Engarde doesn’t fear immediate reactions—like getting restrained by staff or assaulted by someone on the floor—but what he  _does_  fear is unexpected payback. It terrifies him. The only time I’ve seen him like that was when he first got admitted and was worried that Shelly deKiller was going to show up just to get revenge.”

I nod. Of everything I’ve spoken with Engarde about, this hasn’t come up, which makes sense: why talk about a perceived threat and a vulnerability when he has a wealth of easier subjects to discuss? I’ve heard more about Engarde than I have about most of the others: about his family, about his fame, about his drug use and addiction and self-harming, about overdoses and betrayals, about rape and assault and suicide attempts and about him being vulnerable and used by people and taking advantage of other people’s vulnerabilities and exploiting them. It only occurs to me now that I’ve never heard about an actual in-the-moment fear, though.

Of course, I don’t know whether to believe it or not, though I  _do_  believe Parke when he says he knows what fear looks like. You don’t spend as long as he has on the floor, meeting with people, and working in this environment, face-to-face with people without being able to recognise things. 

I nod to that. “I just… wouldn’t describe Crescend as especially threatening compared to most of them.” No: he’s surly and sarcastic, but not particularly aggressive in a physical sense.

“When the mood took him, he shot a man in cold blood,” Parke says with a shrug. “And he can hold his own in a fight if he has to. We probably haven’t seen him at the pinnacle of anger, but I’m sure Engarde knows what being used and abused in front of an audience can inspire in someone.”

Good point, Parke.

“So what are you doing?”

Parke sighs. “Waiting to see when Crescend comes back to the unit; we’ve talked to him, he  _Doesn’t know who those fucking fucks_ were, apparently, nor why they’d choose to hit him.”

“Is it safe to keep him here?”

Parke smiles slightly. “Since we took on Portsman, we’re owed a bed in Protective,” he says. “I was thinking about talking to Crescend about going into there, though I don’t think he’ll want to go to the pussy unit.”

I don’t, either, but it’s a consideration. I wonder if it’s one Crescend himself has considered himself.

 

* * *

 

 

“I’m going back.” Still sounding heavily drugged, but with a focussed fury in his eyes, Machi Tobaye stares at me intently. “You tell them Doctor, that I return.”

I don’t say anything. Yes, Machi looks a lot better than he did the last time I saw him, and far more alert. The tubes leading into his hand have gone, though the bruising—and patches of medical tape—on his face haven’t.

“How about we talk about  _you,_ Machi?”

He sniffs. “I better. Good enough, bones healing. Possible to play piano again one day”—there’s a distance in his voice that troubles me. Perhaps he’s focussing on revenge because focussing on the possibility of not being able to play piano again is too awful to bear—“Yoostis—lawyer— make deal with prison when I go back.” He smiles. “I return back soon.”

I make a mental note to find out  _how_  soon. And if he’s telling me the truth or I’m getting some sort of fantasy from him, a bandaid covering a horrible truth he doesn’t want to face.

“Would you still like to meet with me when you come back?” I ask.

He looks confused, as though he’s not really used to staff asking about wat he actually wants, and then he nods. “Suppose so,” he says. “You listen. You secret.”

I nod, smiling. Perhaps it’s something in my expression then, or the nod serves as acknowledgement of some kind, but Machi’s voice softens and lowers, and he relaxes. He winces slightly as he moves—a gesture controlled and designed to hide the pain—and then his eyes soften. Slightly.

“I know who do this to me,” he says. “Engarde and Crescend.” Clearly Crescend isn’t in his good books, with the way he spits his name out as though it’s the foulest, most disgusting expletive he knows.”But I know who really do this. Friend betray me,” he says. “Kristoph Gavin pay.” There’s a cheeky, almost childish smile from him. “Maybe he not know he do this but Engarde do it for him, because of him.” His face hardens. “Engarde laughed when he hold me at piano. Engarde say things, homosexual things.”  _But Crescend is still the worse man in your view_ , I think with interest.

“Would you like to talk about what happened with Parke?” I ask gently. “Perhaps he could keep you away from the three of them—keep you safe?”

I realise only after I’ve said this that it was the wrong thing, and that sparkle is back in his eyes again, and it terrifies me. In spite of—no, maybe  _because of_  – his calm.

“No,” he says. His smile isn’t friendly, it’s incredulous. “Parke not do this, I don’t press charges. I do things myself.” His voice is casual and airy. “My safety? No concern.”

“But if you try to take matters into your own hands—“ I cringe at the phrase as I look down at his which are still hidden amongst balls of bandages and tape—“That can only make things worse for you. When you come back onto the floor, we will put strategies in place to stop anyone threatening you—“  _Or_ you _threatening_ them. I don’t even mention that at the moment, Crescend is in the hospital himself after being beaten up—how badly, Parke never explained to me—by mystery assailants, possibly as payback for his attack on Machi.

Machi shakes his head. Apart from the fact that he’s lying in a hospital bed and sporting bruises and the bandaged hands, he seems to have returned to something close to normal. His energy’s back, and he speaks with concentration and clear intention.

“I deal with things,” he says. “I deal with Crescend, I deal with Engarde. I deal with Gavin by dealing with Engarde.”

I want to scream into his teenaged face that to do so would be extremely stupid, that he’s already been shown what these men are capable of, that he knows that even if Gavin won’t dirty his hands, it won’t stop other people from beating or raping on his word. I want to shake him, to remind him of his initial desire to meet Gavin:  _You know what he is capable of_. But was that Gavin, anyway? Or was that just coincidence and reputation and rumour? I frown. Machi smiles at me, the implication clear: it would be pointless to discuss this with him.

What would I know? I can try to appeal to his sensible side, can’t I?

“Please don’t.”

He looks around the white hospital room, and then looks me directly in the eye. “I ordered hit for Gavin,” he says to me. “Morr-ow dead because of me.” There’s panic on his face. “Gavin my friend, Gavin tell me Morr-ow going to do bad things and get him in trouble over—” he pauses, muttering something that sounds like a combination of  _goosefiretruckhand_  but obviously isn’t as he finds the English for— “tele-fon.” 

I nod. “I tell wise guys Moreau talking to police about them. I offer them cigarette. They deal.” He stretches his arms above him, wincing again and trying to hide it. “I never know if Gavin telling truth about  _tele-fon_. Gavin use me, not care what I do for him. Gavin not my friend.”

I want to tell him the same tired line about how we don’t talk about other inmates, but part of me is struck with the realisation that at the base of things, I’m talking to a teenage boy who has been set up and betrayed and who is hurt and furious. I want to congratulate him on realising that Gavin isn’t his friend, but realise that however I word it, it will sound sarcastic and nasty. And humiliating, and the kid’s already acutely aware of that.

I want to… I don’t know. I can see how Tobaye has gotten under Parke’s usually thick skin: it’s nothing in his nature or his behaviour towards staff, it’s just his circumstances and what he is at heart. A kid who is all but transformed into a monster against his good nature.

 

 

“So some cunts beat up Crescend and I’m  _still_ on laundry level because he’s in the hospital and I can’t mediate in there?” Engarde hasn’t taken nicely to the news. “Lemme up there—I’ll tell him that I didn’t do it, that all’s good, that we’re buddies,  _right_?”

I’m not sure  _mediation_  is the word for the conversation Engarde wants to have with Crescend. More likely, the actual discussion appears to be a veiled threat for compliance in an agreement for them to avoid one another, but I can’t be bothered mentioning it: Parke obviously realises what he means.

“Unfortunately,” he says gently, “These things can’t… be helped.” He eyes narrow slightly. “Unless you were the one who called a hit on him?”

Engarde blinks, with puppy-dog-eyed movie-star appeal. “Why would I do something like  _that?_ ”

“To stop him from getting to you first or testifying indecent assaults against him while you two were carrying on like a pair of teenagers?” Parke’s response is quick and dry and suggests that  _carrying on like a pair of teenagers_  is an extremely polite way of describing the reality. His voice says more than the statement: he really isn’t in the mood for bullshit.

Looking slightly taken aback, Engarde’s expression changes, too. “I didn’t fucking  _rape_  him, Parke,” he says coolly. “It was all totally consensual, dude. Hell, he might have even enjoyed some of it.”

I can see Parke flinch ever so slightly. The subjects of Matt Engarde and rape in conjunction still get at him, and I can only hope that Engarde hasn’t fully realised that.

“I think we both know what was going on, Engarde.” His glare wipes the smile off Engarde’s face and he changes the subject. “And you’re quite adamant that you had nothing to do with the assault?”

Engarde nods. “Look,” he says. “If I was gonna call a hit on someone, it wouldn’t be him, and it wouldn’t be now.” He glances at me with a flash of a smile. “Even the doc says that I’m manipulative and self-serving.”  _Is there anything he hasn’t remembered from that report?_  “Why would I do something like that?” He looks at the door, the sneer in his voice obvious:  _I’m crazy, not stupid_. “Can I go now? They made me come out of my cell for work duty, and if we don’t get the laundry completed in our shift, that shift goes without. Which means everyone wants  _me_  dead because they don’t have clean socks.” He glares at Parke as though he was responsible for that ruling, too, and Parke nods before radioing for someone to collect him.

 

* * *

 

 

Crescend glares at me from the hospital chair, his eyes apprehensive and his gaze sharp from under the purple bruising. He reminds me of the coyote that got stuck in our garage, years ago, when everything was still fine-on-the-surface at home, when Liz heard the noises and saw a surly, injured-but-still-live animal willing to fight its way out amongst the typical collection of human debris which collects in the darkness of the garage. We called animal control and while I never saw too much, I remember the animal’s expression: thankfully he’d been  _caught_  rather than  _killed_ , though it was still a furious glare from a wild-eyed and angry creature, some of its dignity gone, and unable to get out of a painful and frightening situation. And there was the uncertainty. All that is reflecting back at me in Crescend’s face, and I’m not sure if I’m going to get a cold sneer about protection or a barrage of coarse language. I prepare myself for screaming.

“Doctor says I’m good to go back,” he says dryly. “At the start, they thought those fuckers had caved in one of my cheek bones—“ He spits out the words angrily—“But no, seems I get to hang onto my looks for the time being.” Even in his rage and pain, there’s a threat from him.

“Parke was telling me that you have no idea who would—“ I start to say, and the glare in his eyes intensifies. He doesn’t  _know_ , but he’s narrowed it down to one of two obvious answers.

“I  _was_  a detective for years before coming in here, remember?” he sneers. I don’t point out that his years in prison have now surpassed his years on the force. “It’s one of two possibilities, isn’t it? Unless some dark horse has shot through wanting a favour …or wanting me to take revenge on one of the obvious ones.” He looks like he’s considering it. “I doubt it though: the only ones who really run things on the unit are the Gant group, and I don’t have anything they’d want, do I? They don’t want me to take out Engarde, they want him back. My guess is they’ll deal with him themselves somehow. If they give a shit about what he did to Tobaye, which they probably won’t. I mean, hey, it’s essentially neutralised a threat, hasn’t it?”

He looks thoughtful. “And Engarde? He didn’t set it up. There were, like, twenty guys who jumped me in the laundry. None of those pricks were organised, they weren’t affiliated with anyone.” He shifts in the chair slightly, uncomfortable but uncomplaining. “It happened about five minutes after we were back on the floor, and Engarde doesn’t deal smokes.” He pauses, waiting for the implication to set in. I don’t say anything; I’m not encouraging him.

“And even  _he_ couldn’t handle that much cock in that short space of time. Seriously; what else would they want from him? Anyway, word had it that he wanted to mediate with me and was holed up pretending to be sick in his cell… probably because he’s scared shitless knowing I took most of the fall for what happened and that I’m obviously  _pissed_ about it.” There’s contempt in his voice, though he’s calming. In the same way that he went into autodrive with his music, having a mystery to solve seems to have conjured up a ghost of a former identity for him. It’s sad watching him this animated; it’s like seeing forgotten and now useless potential. Crescend will never be a rockstar—or a detective—again.

I’m getting caught up in the mystery, too, and I’m sharing Crescend’s frustration. It doesn’t really make sense. Parke’s got another fire to put out on his hands, and unlike the others, this one seems so weirdly pointless. Engarde  _wanted_  to mediate: there could have been some sort of agreed ceasefire between them rather than something else to investigate and the threat of revenge and more violence looming in the distance.

“My money’s on Tobaye having more influence than he lets on,” he snarls, practically spitting out the words. There’s a betrayed glare aimed in my direction. “You  _do_  realise what happened there, don’t you?” He shifts in the chair again, his bloodshot eyes connecting with mine. “I guess I take the heat since I went along with it and shoulda known better even though it was Engarde’s idea.” His words say one thing, his voice says something else. “Engarde won  _this_  round, but—“

I need not do anything more than raise an eyebrow. Crescend stops. “I guess the point is, Tobaye’s out of action for awhile, isn’t he?” he asks. “They’re sending him off to Protective afterwards, aren’t they?” And there’s a softness in there, a hope; either Crescend truly feels remorse for what happened to the kid, or he’s terrified of what’s going to happen when he returns. I don’t dare point out the irony that all this seemed to come about when he was knocked back for parole and felt that  _he_  had nothing to lose, and now Tobaye, with years added to his sentence and his music-making suspended indefinitely has nothing to lose  _either_. Or the fact that if he hadn’t set Tobaye up for a murder which he committed, the kid wouldn’t even be in here.

“I’m not sure,” I say. “In the meantime, though, Mr. Crescend—“

He gets up violently, pushing the chair behind him. “If they don’t send him to the pussy wing, they’d  _better_  send Engarde,” he growls.

Perhaps it’s a good thing that the mediation didn’t happen.

“Mister—“ I’m not used to seeing Crescend snap so unexpectedly like this. I’ve never really feared for my safety with him, but now I do. I glance around the room, remembering seeing Engarde crushed against the wall— _that wall right behind Crescend_ —after he threw his chocolate milk at me, what seems like an age ago.

“Cocksucking son-of-bitch can mediate  _this_.” In that split second, my fingers brush over the plastic of the duress alarm button like the featherlight touch of an exploring lover. It’s about to happen. It’s—

Crescend grips the back of the chair, and I’m wired and ready to hit the alarm and move.

And then there’s a knock on the door—Nurse Ree is standing there, smiling at Crescend. Her presence is enough to soften him and relax his grip on the chair.

Crisis averted.

“Sorry,” she offers for her interruption, turning to Crescend, then to me, then back to him. “Um, Mr. Crescend, it’s got on the record that you asked for pain relief over an hour ago and no one gave you any, and I just thought I’d check in and see if you still wanted—“

He nods and communicates a “Yes, please,” to her, and it’s like watching a bomb diffused in front of me. I give Nurse Ree a nod of acknowledgement, and make a hasty exit. Denham’s standing outside the door and he gives me a questioning look.

“He’s lost it, hasn’t he?” he asks. “Crossed that event horizon.” It’s unusual to hear Denham sounding this maudlin and bothered; perhaps he was someone else who didn’t mind Crescend and who could at least see that the man was trying to make some kind of an effort in here. His gaze moves to the door, and only a moment before it opens, there’s a mutter from him. “Poor bastard.”

 

 

When I get back to my office to write reports, the phone’s ringing. I can only guess that Parke’s had his eye on the security cameras and seen me make my way upstairs and decide to ring then.

“You aren’t going to believe this.”

“What?” I lean back into the chair, letting it creak slightly.

“This “hit” we’ve been chasing?” He pauses. “Looks like more than anything, it was a case of Gavin having a big mouth and talking to the wrong person.”

“Except that Gavin doesn’t have a big mouth and doesn’t talk to anyone unless there’s a reason for doing so.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Parke says, and I can practically see the grimace on his face. “Problem is, you try telling me that he’s going to own up to it. Story goes—and he actually approached me to ask if everything was all right—and  _then_  he revealed that he talked to someone off-handledly—“

“Why would he call a hit on Crescend, anyway? I didn’t think there was anything between them.”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out, too. Maybe he actually liked the kid and felt bad about what his ex-boyfriend did to him.”

“Well why Crescend then?” I don’t bother saying anything about what Gavin told me in the session about how endearing he seemed to find Engarde’s newly awakened bloodlust.

“Maybe he couldn’t bring himself to see Engarde beaten up by someone who wasn’t him?” Parke sniffs. “Shit, I don’t know.”

“How’d he do it, anyway?” I move the mouse on my desk and the desktop background appears, a box prompting me for my sign-in information.

“Apparently when he was collecting his laundry someone asked him about it, since he’d been Tobaye’s room mate.” He pauses. “It was the other shift—the one Crescend  _isn’t_ on—“

“How does that lead to twenty people deciding to avenge Machi Tobaye?”

“Good question. Even Gavin seemed genuinely surprised about that; he apparently doesn’t know any of these guys and the records suggest as much, too. Half of them came in on petty offences and haven’t been here for that long—at any rate, they were put away after Crescend had been locked up, so there’s no revenge thing going on.”

“Why would a group of random people decide to avenge Tobaye then? On the word of Gavin?”

 “That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” Parke says. “That’s what’s been plaguing me all fucking morning.” I hear him sigh into the phone. “I heard you saw Crescend; did he tell you anything he didn’t tell me?”

“No.”

“Shame.” He changes the subject. “Apparently they’re bringing him back into the unit this afternoon,” he says. “I get the impression he doesn’t want to mediate with Engarde any more. And Engarde’s stayed in his room all day cutting himself and threatening to attack staff if they try to remove the item, so we’re just leaving him in there on observations.”

I murmur in disapproval. I realise the constant exposure to violence and all brands of craziness brings about an indifference to it, but as the resident psychiatrist, I can never approve of such measures becoming common practise on the prison floor. “And when he accidentally cuts though a major artery and  _dies_?”

“He’s not escalating, he’s on obs, and his self-harming has been intermittent and superficial.” Parke sighs, the tone in his voice suggesting that I  _know_  what Engarde is  _like_  and that I shouldn’t be this concerned, that the situation is  _under control_. “I think more than anything he just wants to be kept in there and the cutting is just to show staff that he’s potentially dangerous if they try to make him come out. Not that anyone’s going to: it’s a nuisance having someone off the floor doing obs on him, but he’s contained, he’s not hurting anyone—“

“Except himself,” I interject.

“Lily’s on him at the moment,” he says. “He’s got rapport with Lily. He doesn’t have to front up to her and pull out the drama; she can watch him and he won’t feel threatened by her—“

“It’s still not going to be a long term solution.” I don’t suggest that at some point, Lily is going to finish her shift, and that might be enough to send Engarde off.  

There’s a pause, and I know what this means—Parke realises that I’m right. And he’s willing to accept that without any kind of powerplay. There’s a sigh from him; the last thing he needs is another drama to worry about. But he knows—as well as I do—that this is what  _happens_. Incidents don’t ever happen in isolation, and they pile on top of one another, unresolved and just waiting for more to join the stack.

“I know,” he says. “But for the moment, he’s safe in there, and he’s not adding to anything. Sometimes I wonder if Engarde actually likes the, well, isolation, of, um, isolation.”

I don’t say anything in response, and thinking about Crescend and the meeting and the incident which prompted the phone call, ask whether anyone connected to it has spoken up.

“Nope.” Parke doesn’t sound convinced anyone will, either. “Unless Crescend’s going to press charges—which—you know as well as I do that he won’t—we’ve got nothing. And I doubt he’ll flail around trying to get revenge on those guys anyway.”

“Right. Crescend’s already discussed with me the possibility of who he thinks it was.”

“Any ideas on that?”

“I suspect he’s still biased against Tobaye because of their past; he doesn’t think it’s Engarde—he’s more of the idea that it’s someone trying to make a name for himself to Tobaye.”

“Could be right.” Irritatingly, Parke states the obvious. “I mean, he was a detective after all.”

I ignore it and continue. “He seems unconvinced that Engarde was involved. Which surprised me—“

“Unless he’s bluffing and planning on getting revenge on Engarde in his own sweet time.”

I hadn’t considered that. Not really. It doesn’t sound impossible though, especially when I recall the threat that Parke had "better" be moving Engarde to Protective.

I think about the rage and the hatred and the threats—both the verbal ones, and the more direct way Crescend grabbed the chair. I haven’t mentioned that to anyone, yet. Do I? Or will it only give Crescend the self-fulfilling prophecy he needs to descend to the level of irredeemable monster? This is a fair shift from the Crescend I know and am used to. I think about his anger; I can understand where it stems from. I’m not meant to be a part of this, I’m meant to report without bias and with complete honesty.

But I haven’t in the past. I’ve left out details about other inmates and my interactions with them… has this, in a butterfly-effect fashion, caused Crescend’s behaviour to escalate? I tape on my desk distractedly. No. I’m being stupid. I—

“Doc? You still there?” Parke sounds concerned but busy.

“Yeah—Sorry.”

“I just wanted to say if you get anything else out of any of them, please let me know: I’d like to have this tied up before any of them come back into contact and before anything else happens.”

“Yeah.” It seems almost childish and stupid to hear what Parke  _wants_. What’s going to happen with or without managerial interference is something else entirely.

 

I look at the screen which has blackened again—and stretch in my chair once the call finishes. I hate the fact that at the moment, I feel as though all I can do is wait for things to get worse.

 


	39. Waiting

For the next few days, we have tension. It’s the electricity in the air before a storm, a forboding smart enough to evade description. And it permeates the air around us, virus-like, attacking everyone who enters the prison, with the same sort of indiscriminate selection, leaving its victims unaware of the damage until it’s already taken hold.

The key players—Engarde and Crescend—seem to have their backers. A third, larger group amasses around this: the bystanders who want _action_ , who have wagered cigarettes, money, chores, sexual favours, contraband—anything of value—on firsts. Who will be the first to break? Who will throw the first punch? Who will go to solitary first? Who will _win_? They’re uninvested, but interested.

Engarde and Crescend are unflinching. They circle one another like two fighters sizing one another up before the first jab, and because everyone knows what’s going to happen yet nothing has _happened—_ and both deny it vehemently when questioned by Parke and their respective caseworkers—no one can do anything except watch and wait. It’s electric and ominous—we’re all waiting for the inevitable. And it doesn’t just stop at the two players, or the crowd behind them betting cigarettes and blowjobs on who’ll do what—their tension is contagious. It seeps through to the staff, who then rebound it back onto the rest of the prison population.

 

Julien Callander is sitting in my office, biting his nails. The tension’s affected him, too, which shows how far-reaching it is—Callander is little more than vermin to most of them. He isn’t even a target for the thugs—something about how pathetic and troubled he is makes him untouchable. Or perhaps they’re scared that his brand of crazy is so evil and disturbing that it might just be contagious if they get close enough. It’s had its advantage, though: almost ironically, it’s afforded Callander protection.   

I look at him, frowning. I don’t know what to do with him; Parke insisted that I at least try seeing him, because reports have circulated that his mental health is declining, and somehow Smeer has managed to wipe his hands of him and disappear on leave.

Normally I would be irritated, or amused. But considering the last proper conversation I had with the junior doctor makes me squirm.

_How do you just keep doing this?_

I don’t want to answer that.

“I’m not sure.”

Callander eyes me quizzically. “What was that?” There’s a giggle hidden in the back of his throat, but it’s not amusement, it’s toxic insanity, bubbling to the surface and threatening to escape into the chaos around him.

_My office is a safe space._

I clear my throat. “I’m not sure what we can do at the moment, Mr. Callander.”

“I don’t want you to put me on more meds.” He’s whining, but there’s something sharp in his eyes. “If you do what Dr. Smeer did, I won’t take them.”

“Mr. Call—“

“I _won’t_.” He’s insistent, despite the childlike, singsong whine.

“We need to do _something_.” One thing which might appeal to his logic is keeping things relaxed and calm, _making_ my office a non-threatening space. Not letting him feel cornered. “Maybe medication—or _that_ medication, at least—isn’t the answer for you—“ I mentally curse Smeer for taking such an extreme measure so early with him, frightening him and sending him scattered, and leaving me to clean up the resulting disaster—“but there have been concerns for your safety—“

“I can take care of myself,” he insists.

 _Which is why you have overlooked the fact that I’ve obviously tried to sell you an idea, why you confessed to a crime you couldn’t have possibly committed, and why Machi Tobaye sent you to the hospital within ten minutes of his arrival here_.

“Perhaps,” I say gently, leaning in towards him—“But I’d prefer not to see you getting in trouble trying to do so.”

He frowns, and I notice his hands clenching. “I’m _fine_ ,” he insists. “I have _friends_. And I can look after _myself_.”

I capture a glimpse of his true rage, just for a moment. He’s not good enough at acting to fake a response, not sophisticated enough to malinger, and the anger I see in that moment—that tension, the fists, the glow of crimson in his skin—gives me cause to stop and try to change the subject.

I wouldn’t say Callander is gentle and simple, and obviously he had the physical strength to attack his victims, but up until that moment, I haven’t accurately gaged what he could be capable of.

“Let’s talk about them for a moment, Mr. Callander—“

He eyes me with suspicion. Wrong question.

“I am _fine_ ,” he says. “My friends look after me. Things happen.” He flexes the fingers on his right hand, unfurling his fist, revealing the jagged, bitten nails and scarring. “Tobaye got what was coming to him, didn’t he?”

_That had nothing to do with you._

I don’t say anything.

“Didn’t he?” he asks again, more insistently.

I decide to play dumb and ask him to explain.

His hands are fists again, and his voice rises.

“You know what I mean,” he yells, standing up with such force that I’m surprised when his chair remains standing. “Tobaye is in _hospital_ now. He’s _broken_. He’s ruined, for the rest of his life, isn’t he?”

He doesn’t talk about it with the same sort of glee as Engarde did, but still, it’s alarming.

“Sometimes things happen and—“

“I _made_ it happen,” he insists, his voice still several decibels higher than I’d prefer in my office. “And I’ll make it happen to anyone else I—“ He pauses, glaring at me. “I wouldn’t fuck with me, Doctor, if that’s what you were thinking of.”

“I—wasn’t.” I look at the seat, and then back at Callander. Is he past the point of reasoning? Should I just reach for my radio and have him returned to the unit, mark him as non-compliant with medication, note that he’s now graduated to magical thinking and rage—not exactly a fun combination—and ask that he be escorted back to the unit? Should I do essentially everything I’ve advocated against and write a script for major tranquilizers before anyone gets hurt?

Or should I try appealing to whatever’s left of his better side?

I try to remain loose and gentle. “Come on, Mister Callander—sit down.” I smile wearily at him, nervous, deciding to reassure him, my voice calm. “I’m not angry with you… you don’t need to get angry with me—I’m not going to make you do anything—“

Wide-eyed, he looks at me, his pupils huge and black. I’ve only seen a few people stare at me like this before, and it’s remarkable and terrifying how clear the change in their eyes can be. Of course there is a physical reason for what looks like possession—but the effect it has doesn’t make me consider blood flow and years of evolutionary survival mechanisms and all the rest of it. Callander is someplace else now, and _my_ evolutionary reaction is towards flight, not understanding.

Callander doesn’t sit down. He starts pacing, his fists still clenched. “I will get them,” he snarls. “They’ll _pay_.” I’m frantically trying to work out what triggered him off: was it the mention of Tobaye? Granted, he’s been stressed for awhile now, and there have been comments about his declining mental health, but this is new for him. Perhaps all that was needed to send him off like this was the stimulus of my office.

“Mister Callander—“ I reach out across my desk, and he flinches back as though I’ve struck him.

“Don’t fucking touch me!” he yells.

“Would you like to sit down?”

“No!”

“Would you like to… go back to the unit?” I’d rather him return to the unit before things get worse for him, and I believe he’s too lost for the remainder of the session.

He doesn’t say anything, so I pick up the phone and press in the communications office extension. When Towne answers and I start quietly explaining what’s happening, Callander turns to face me, glaring from the other side of my desk, far too close for comfort.

“You’re talking about me!” His voice is a horrifying screech, and he grabs the sides of my computer screen with both hands. My eyes are glued to his fingertips; I’m waiting for it—

“Get here _now_ ,” I state into the phone, hanging up before Towne can respond. _A duress alarm will just cause him to escalate_ , I think to myself, hoping Towne understood the urgency in my voice.

“What are you saying?” The screen rattles violently as Callander’s fingers release it, miraculously not toppling forward as I expected it to. I jump back, startled and waiting for him to strike out.

Perhaps this was the sort of thing which had Dr. Smeer on the verge of questioning his entire career choice. Not that I blame him. Callander’s wild-eyed and terrifying; it’s the kind of insanity which comes about from his experiences here, too: the madness of boredom and isolation and anger and having nothing left to lose. But I don’t know what we can do with him any more; he’s a serious risk in this state.

 

Guiltily I wonder if I’d judged Smeer’s willingness to resort to medication too harshly. Perhaps medication would have stabilised him before he turned into this. Maybe he was worried that Matt Engarde was heading here.

“You’re _scared_ , aren’t you?” He laughs, bellowing and crazy, thankfully focussed on me and not on— _no, not the plaster cat on my desk, Anna made that for me_ —

and—

“You’ll get _yours_ , Doctor,” he hisses. “Like they all do. Maybe _I_ won’t do it, but people don’t fuck with me.”

I’m looking at the door now, avoiding any eye contact with him, terrified that the slightest falter will cause him to escalate even further. What do I say? While he’s in this state, anything could be a trigger—I just look at the door, silently willing it to open, as Callander shifts closer to me.

“Klavier Gavin got his, didn’t he?”

My blood runs cold at the mention of his name and what it’s in reference to. Perhaps I got _that_ wrong, as well: perhaps Dr. Smeer—who is now on leave and out of reach—was _right_ about all but sedating Callander; perhaps Callander complaining about loss of sexual function was just an elaborate lie to back up the story that he didn’t assault Klavier—even though it didn’t work and he took the blame any way.

But I remember the wild-eyed, horrifying expression from Gant which caused Lily to scream when they were barricaded inside the visitors’ room and we could only look on. There’d been a crazy relish in his eyes. The Julien Callander of that time was terrified.

 _Callander losing it now and having grandiose ideas and making threats doesn’t make him anything more than a mentally ill individual_ , I tell myself, eyes still on the door.

His voice drops to a low rumble. “Klavier Gavin was the one who put me away, you know.”

I just nod, absorbing it. I’d never bothered reading to far into his paperwork. Maybe I should have.

“He got his, didn’t he?” Callander giggles, sounding demented, and he leans further towards me, lewd and veering closer to revelation. I don’t know that I want to hear it. I’m terrified by his violence and his close proximity and what he might tell me now.

_When did I become so squeamish?_

There’s a bang on the other side of the door and it is slammed open by an alarmed Towne and Field. But not before I hear Callander’s last warning—

“And you’ll get yours, Doc.”

 

 

“Are you okay?” Parke doesn’t look convinced by my nod.

“Just take the rest of the afternoon off and—“

“I _said_ I’d catch up with Tobaye this afternoon.”

Parke frowns at me. “He didn’t really want to talk to me when I went to see him yesterday,” he admits. There’s a tired, old sigh in his voice, like he’s regretting having failed the kid, and like he’s worried I will too. I didn’t know he was visiting Tobaye; then again, I remember how he reacted towards him. It was something close to fatherly: I shouldn’t be surprised. Perhaps he’s telling me this to put my mind at ease, to alleviate any guilt I might feel if I skip out and go home and spend the evening getting better acquainted with a bottle of whiskey.

“I still said I’d see him.” I can’t quite pinpoint why I want to get this out of the way in case I can’t at a later date. Maybe I’m getting a tingling which I can’t even articulate about Callander? He’s what’s on my mind at the moment, though there are probably a dozen other issues I haven’t considered.

“You might see him sooner than you think …back on the unit.” Now Parke’s voice is tight and unimpressed; it’s the voice of someone pushed into making diplomatic statements against his will. “That lawyer of his has been pushing for his return to the unit and physiotherapy.”

“Do we have medical advice suggesting we can’t do that?”

“Nope.” Defeated, Parke’s frown only deepens. “Problem is, too, it’s costing us to keep him there, and when he’s fighting us to return to the unit, there’s not much point in us going against his wishes—“

“I can guess why he’s so determined to come back.”

“Yeah.” Parke stretches uncomfortably. “Question is, will he go for Engarde or Crescend …or Gavin? And if so, _how_?”

I don’t know, but Parke shares my thoughts. And I keep thinking—perhaps— _maybe—_ if I pay him a visit, I can somehow talk him out of it and convince him to delay his revenge. Or not partake in it at all. _Maybe_.

And I realise that it’s fanciful, silly save-the-world idealism. I should know by now: Tobaye has made his mind up and got the ball rolling into place to return him to the unit so he can unleash his special brand of rage. No matter how much I want to think I can change events, I can’t. Maybe I can lessen the blow, pick up the pieces after all is said and done, and try to put a few things back together.

“Can we force him to go into the—“

“The pussy unit? And have him _make_ us move him back out to gen pop or the isolation wing because he’s killed someone because he wants out?” I can tell from the way Parke’s talking through gritted teeth that he’s already considered it. “Last thing we need is the media riding us because we _knew_ that he would pose a threat to more vulnerable inmates. His lawyer knows he doesn’t want to go there: we stick him in there against his will, we reap what we sow. And that Justice kid is no stranger to publicity.”

Good point.

Distracting myself from what’s slowly become demoralising, I change the subject and tell Parke what the problem was before I’d considered Tobaye’s return and its big blank unknowns.

“I saw Julien Callander this afternoon,” I tell him. Parke raises an eyebrow—the _So I heard_ he’s thinking not having to be verballised, but doesn’t say anything, leaving me to explain. “You’re right: he’s getting worse. The tension on the unit seems to have sent him to a heightened state of anxiety.”

“It’s a shame we can’t just give him something to blot him out and keep him smiling—“

“An unfortunate side-effect of Gant’s anti-drug operations,” I joke.

Parke doesn’t look amused.

“I mean something official. Christ.”

He rubs his temples. “I’m waiting for something to happen,” he says; “I usually have some vague idea of where it’s going to happen, but right now there are just too many potential issues. This place feels more like a high-dependency psych ward than a prison right now.” He’s still massaging his face, fingertips shifting up to his forehead where they knead up against the deep crevices etched into his skin. He stops when he realises I’m looking at him. I’d _worked_ in a psychiatric ward as part of an internship, years ago.

“In high-dependency psych wards, we can manage behaviour with drugs, and the overall philosophy is one of treatment and—“

“Containment?” he asks. “Isn’t that what we do here?”

I exhale quietly. “I’ve agonised about some of the decisions we _could_ make for various clients here,” I begin, but—

“If we can manage Engarde with drugs, I’m unsure why we can’t do the same for Callander,” Parke says grimly. “He’s a walking disaster. Too damaged and naïve to really be here—a bomb waiting to go off in someone’s face—either he’s going to hurt someone else, or more likely, someone else is going to hurt him.” He goes quiet and serious again. “If institutionalisation hasn’t already damaged him enough.”

Sometimes I look at Parke and wonder if this was what he wanted to do with his life and then it starts making me feel uncomfortable because I invariably start thinking of what the people in college I was studying next to are doing with their lives now. Maybe they’re not in luxurious offices with expensive lounges in the waiting rooms, but they’re probably not considering pharmaceutical impairment as a creative solution to the pains of imprisonment. 

“I agree. Getting him to _take_ medication is going to be a hurdle, though.”

“Yeah. They won’t give us dart guns.” Parke chuckles darkly. “Perhaps we could feed Tobaye some lies about Callander setting up the hit on him, lock them in a room together and see what happens.”

“You don’t mean that.” He doesn’t, and he sighs again.

“I know I don’t. It’s just that if you don’t laugh about this shit, what’re you gonna do?”

Neither of us say anything after that, because he’s right.

 

 

It’s almost a relief when my report-writing is interrupted by my last appointment of the day: Gavin. He looks quite pleased with himself as he walks in, calm and composed and silent, nodding to Denham politely before taking his seat.

I never thought I’d be _relieved_ to see _Gavin_ because for once, he’s the harbinger of calm.

I didn’t even realise that he was scheduled in for an appointment.

“Hello Doctor.” He smiles, ever observant, looking completely refreshed, in the sort of way that suggests that he’s aware of my stress and it’s causing him great amusement. When I don’t say anything, he continues. “I’m surprised that you’re not seeing me in isolation again.”

I pause at that, suddenly focused, yet determined not to give him a reaction. “Why do you say that, Mr. Gavin?”

“Daryan Crescend,” he offers simply. “I think _every_ one knows what happened _there_.”

I’m dying to ask him, but I’m also dying to not show him that, so I change the subject. “So… I hear you’ve got a new room mate.”

He chuckles quietly, his eyes sparkling. “ _Harry_ ,” he says, with something akin to affection in his voice. “I think he’s a bit scared of me, unfortunately.” He looks bothered by the idea and starts playing with his hair. “He seemed to think that I would _do things_ to him _._ ” His nose wrinkles in disgust. “I suppose childish homophobia runs rampant in these sorts of environments, as typical and as difficult to eradicate as lice—though I _did_ explain to him that he most certainly _isn’t_ my type, that I had no interest in gaining inexperienced sexual favours from him and that I suspected he’d be ill-equipped to meet my needs in any other fashion, either.” He blinks. “I have been the perfect gentleman.”

I think about what happened with Tobaye. “So you haven’t _befriended_ him?” I ask.

“Not at all, to be honest. I lie in bed and read or think, and he lies in bed and sobs over pictures of his family that he won’t see again.”

I feel like he’s not telling me about something, and there’s another silence between us which lasts longer than usual. He’s being patient, even while his pleasant and benign gaze is boring into me.

“Was there anything you came to talk to me about specifically?”

He looks thoughtful, and then speaks. “I don’t like the current state of the unit,” he admits. And then he looks away, and in the flash of a second, I’m trying to work out if he’s lying, or if the glimpse away was because of uncontrolled honesty, a secret admission he allowed to escape. He’s looking at the floor as he speaks, leaving me still guessing. “I don’t like the instability. It isn’t _good_ for people. It puts everyone on edge. Dangerous and disturbing things seem to happen. Chaos.”

“I realise you like order,” I offer quietly. “You appear to be coping particularly well under the circumstances then.”

Gavin looks irritated then. “I was, of course, referring to my fellow inmates,” he sniffs. “It does make for a dangerous environment for everyone when this sort of tension remains unaddressed.”

“Is there anyone in particular that you are concerned about?”

“Well the assault on Daryan Crescend could be seen as one symptom of it: it was so violent and unpredictable that had I known that some casual banter about Borginia’s organised crime rings with the laundry staff could lead to such a calculated and brutal attack—“

While he sounds like he’s lying, because his sincerity sounds so _false_ , I’m wondering if Parke got this one wrong. Maybe he really only _was_ talking to the others since he’d been on laundry for the past couple of days given that it’s been quiet at Ric’s end of things. Maybe all the years he’s spent here have left him lonely, and gradually degrading, and just desperate to get through his day and connect with his fellow man over smalltalk.

“And then there are, well, _others_.”

“Such as?”

“Engarde. Locked in his cell all day like an animal, destroying himself for an audience as though he’s some sort of macabre performance artist—“

Two plus two equals four. I’m listening to him, but not quite. I’m glossing over his lyrical flourishes and looking at the theme, the jump—

“You did that for him, didn’t you?”

He blinks, and his eyes suddenly focus on mine. “Whatever are you referring to, Doctor?”

I suck in my breath, disbelieving, but realising that it does, in a peculiar way, make sense.

“You knew that the people in the laundry would take on Machi Tobaye’s enemy because of the fact that they want to get in with the gangs so they can get out of laundry service.”

He stares at me blankly.

“You also know that Crescend, in hospital, isn’t going to be able to attack Engarde or rally support of the men who attacked him, so Crescend is no longer a threat.”

He blinks. “And—suppose I just dislike Crescend intensely myself—as I have done, for years—without laying a finger on him—“

There’s a silence between us, but something twitchy in his face which makes me nervous. Have I hit a nerve or have I insulted him? Or is it just what he’s pointed out; the tension getting to him? I’m not sure.

“Crescend and I have a long history. I’ve always been polite about it.”

I wonder why, and suppose to myself that it’s because no one would side with him in here if Crescend explained _why_ he despised him.

But he’s right. I have this sense of almost-smugness, where I wonder if he realises just how much he’s revealing to me in this. But then comes the consideration that he doesn’t casually drop clues about his ulterior motives. Ever. Whatever it is that he’s trying to tell me in this roundabout manner is for a _reason_.

“Could you possibly—“ I ask diplomatically, “Have let such a— _casual topic of conversation_ slip because you wished to protect someone?”

“I have no idea whom you’d be referring to.” His voice is dismissive and arrogant, and it’s enough to annoy me.

“Engarde.”

He laughs haughtily, unimpressed. “Doctor,” he says. “Do you honestly believe that someone such as myself— someone who acts purely out of self-interest—would do such a thing?” Blinking, pushing his glasses up his nose, and now sitting up straight, his eyes meet mine. I’ve gotten some sort of shift in his demeanour, at least. “Such actions would send me to isolation for a very long time, wouldn’t they?” It’s a challenge. But if my theory is correct, he’s made sure no one can tie him back to Engarde—or Tobaye.

“What about Tobaye then?”

He shrugs. “Tobaye was a sweet boy,” he says. “Brutally damaged by the system, naïve, in his own funny way, brighter than most  would credit him with—but hardly worthy of time spent in isolation, especially when it appears that he’s quite capable of looking after himself.” He adjusts his sleeve, the fabric from his prison shirt now covering his slender, scarred hand. “How is he doing, anyway?”

I’m annoyed again. “We don’t discuss other inmates here,” I say.

“I was only asking out of concern for the lad,” he says carelessly. “Of course, I worry about the chaos and his return, of course. Assuming that he comes back soon; Parke _did_ tell me something about him suffering extensive injuries—“

“Tell me about Crescend then.”

He wasn’t expecting that, clearly, because he looks startled for a split second before leaning forward and smiling. “I thought we didn’t discuss—“

“I’m not asking you to discuss him, rather, your experiences with him. It’s something you’ve never told me about.”

He gives me a thoughtful look and then steeples his fingers before deciding to answer. “Daryan Crescend…” he says, drearily, his voice laced with disgust. “He began showing up at our house when Klavier was living with me, not long after he’d moved to America. He and Klavier were starting a _rock band_.”

I’d seen the resulting rock band. I’d heard their music. The way Gavin talks about it, the Gavinners were little more than a childish garage band fantasy, a rite of passage for every American teenager. Sellout concerts, innuendo-laden posters and platinum singles later, and even I can admit that they actually went somewhere with their music.

“Was it their taste in music that you objected to or something else?” I smile faintly, and Gavin fails to see anything humourous about the situation.

“Daryan was a bad influence on my brother,” he says darkly. “Klavier was always such a good boy, polite, respectful, obedient—“ I try not to flinch when he says that word—“But Daryan encouraged him to—move aside from that.” He shakes his head, hand propping up his glasses. “Thankfully some part of the Klavier I knew still remained and he didn’t abandon his legal studies—though I strongly suspect that Daryan’s motivation in becoming a detective was solely to do with my brother.”

“So…” I stop myself, wondering if he’s going to elaborate. Daryan had sworn revenge on him, via his song at the Smile Time Variety Show. Daryan, presumably, knew about the fact that Gavin had been sexually abusing his younger brother. Did that solidify his resolve about going into a line of work where he could build cases against sexual predators? Did Gavin hate him because he was jealous of their relationship—or because Crescend posed a threat?

“You seem to have been quite civil towards one another while you’ve both been here.”

He doesn’t say anything initially, thought the look he’s giving me clearly suggests that the reason things have been civil is because _he’s_ felt like keeping them that way.

“I try not to make trouble, doctor.” And the way he says it, it’s so sweet and polite and convincing that I really want to allow myself to believe it. Did Phoenix Wright… and Apollo Justice… and everyone else he’s used that act for—did they find themselves just _wanting_ to believe that voice?

I think I can understand it.

“Yet you seem to have been involved in some… incidents.” I remember the bloody handprints on the walls which I saw before meeting him that second time.

“I suppose it happens to even the best of us,” he says casually. “Incarceration drives men to insanity… or to other things.” He pushes his glasses up his nose. “Speaking of which,” he says, “Is there some sort of plan in place for when Tobaye returns?”

“I’ve already _said_ , Mister Gavin, that we don’t—“

“He’s going to kill Engarde if he gets near him. You do realise that, don’t you?” He interrupts me in heavy, blunt monotone.

I frown. Now that it’s been mentioned to me, I am supposed to do something with the information. Lest something actually happens to him.

I don’t answer, and I’m not playing Gavin’s games. “I thought you were through with Engarde.”

“I thought you didn’t like discussing other inmates, Doctor.”

“Which is just what you were—“ I’m getting irritated with him, remembering Richard Wellington’s time-wasting and manipulative visits, and it’s the end of the day, and clearly it must show.

“Perhaps I wasn’t telling you for _his_ sake, Doctor,” he purrs, “But for yours.”

 

 

“Guess what?” I’m walking to my car when I hear Parke’s voice behind me.

“Do I want to?”

“Probably not.”

“But you’re going to tell me, aren’t you?”

I stop,, hearing the metallic _tch_ of a lighter being pushed to ignition, and turn around to see Parke inhaling deeply on a cigarette. It’s making me want one, and I suppose he wants conversation enough to toss me the pack and pass me the lighter.

I was on my way _out of here_. Do I really want to know more bleary details about this place? Or would I prefer unpleasant surprises next time I’m in?

“Got a phone call today,” Parke continues. His voice sounds grim and sarcastic. He sticks one hand up against the wall fronting the car park. I can see he’s parked not too far away, I’m still a fair walk off in the distance.

“Who’s coming back?”

He chuckles, but it’s not really a laugh. It’s the sort of noise that you make when you want to pretend that you’re in with the universe and its horrible sense of humour, but at the same time you’re despising it.

“Machi Tobaye assaulted a nurse in the hospital an hour ago.”

 _Shit_.

“They want him out of there, pronto, tomorrow morning.” I figured. “Youth services have washed their hands clean of him and are saying that he’s only gotten worse since coming to us, which we all know is a load of horse shit, but we’re not going to win this one. And I’ve got sub-managers from the other units screaming over the phone about how nice they’ve got things running and how there’s no way in hell they’re taking _him_. I offered to take three of the serial drug pests—figured Gant would sort them out, set them straight—for him to have his own cell in F. No go. Gen pop doesn’t want him since finding out who his lawyer is; they’re worried he’s going to get bashed or raped in there and his lawyer will go completely nuts to the media.” Which is a fair point.

“What about Protective?”

Parke laughs. “In addition to the fact that Tobaye has threatened to kill people if he’s sent there—so he can come back to A Unit—“

“What, so he can kill people here?”

“—I’ve got the management there threatening to toast my ass if he so much as gets a glimpse of them in there. There are some special cases in there right now, and it’s settled.”

He sucks in deeply on the cigarette. “There’s no room at the lockups, either, so we’re getting him back tonight.” He looks down at the cigarette in his hand. “I’m just having this now before waiting for us to receive him.”   
  
“Where are you putting him?”

Parke sighs. “F wing did us a favour and took Gold in, freeing us up his room—up the other end of the corridor from Gavin.”

“So he’s now right up near the Gant group?”

Parke looks pained and shrugs. “Best of a bad situation,” he says. “What else was I supposed to do? So far the only one coming in I know about is Welles, that motivational speaker, and given the fact that I had to  _beg_ F wing management to take Gold, we’re definitely getting this guy. He shouldn't be a threat to Tobaye, though… right?”

I assume that Parke is expecting another Harry Dupp—someone completely unfamiliar with prison, who is utterly terrified. I just hope Tobaye doesn’t want to throw his weight around and prove that he’s still a threat.

As if reading my thoughts, Parke continues. “Which is _why_ I want to be here to intake Tobaye and explain the situation to him. I think we can make this work; at heart Tobaye’s not a mean kid. He just has some triggering issues and brute strength.”

_I hope you’re right, Parke._

“Let’s hope they get along, then.”

“Hopefully having a room mate who is entirely removed from the situation will help keep Tobaye grounded.

 _Grounded._ While the unit is on the cusp of … _the r word_. I just nod, and watch as Parke drops his cigarette, crushing it into the ground with his boot, and he heads back into work, and I head towards my car.


End file.
